You have said my eyes are blue;

There may be a fairer hue,

Perhaps, and yet

It is surely not a sin

If I keep my secrets in

Violet.

MY OLD ARM-CHAIR.

[Extract.]

BARRY CORNWALL.

PET poets coin their golden dreams;
Let lovers weave their vernal themes;
And paint the earth all fair.

To me no such bright fancies throng :
I sing a humble hearthstone song,

Of thee,—my old arm-chair!

Poor-faded-ragged-crazy-old,

Thou'rt yet worth thrice thy weight in gold;

Ay! though thy back be bare :

For thou hast held a world of worth,
A load of heavenly human earth,-

My old arm-chair!

112

MY OLD ARM-CHAIR.

Here sate-ah! many a year ago,

When, young, I nothing cared to know

Of life or its great aim,—

Friends (gentle hearts) who smiled and shed
Brief sunshine on my boyish head:
At last the wild clouds came,—

And vain desires, and hopes dismayed,
And fears that cast the earth in shade,
My heart did fret;

And dreaming wonders, foul and fair;

And who then filled mine ancient chair,
I now forget.

Then Love came-Love !—without his wings,
Low murmuring here a thousand things

Of one I once thought fair;

'Twas here he laughed, and bound my eyes,

Taking me, boy, by sweet surprise,

Here, in my own arm-chair.

MY OLD ARM-CHAIR.

How I escaped from that soft pain,

And (nothing lessoned) fell again

Into another snare,

And how again Fate set me free,

Are secrets 'tween my soul and me,--

Me, and my old arm-chair.

Years fade-Old Time doth all he can :

The soft youth hardens into man;

The vapour Fame

Dissolves: Care's scars indent our brow

Friends fail us in our need :—but thou

Art still the same.

H

113

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

WILLIAM COWPER.

T

HAT Nature, alas! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle,

Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is decked with a smile.

See, Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed,

Where the flowers have the charms of the spring, Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime,

A fortress to which she retreats

From the cruel assaults of the clime.