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Thou can'st win the world's applause,

Ellen Evelina;
Thou'rt a wit and bel esprit,
Living upon flattery ;
But I'd rather all my days
Love a woman, seeking praise,
Not from others, but from me,

Ellen Evelina.
When thou singest, hearts beat low,

Ellen Evelina;
Admiration great and free,
Lingers on thy meiody:
But no song, however fair,
In my fancy can compare,
With a whispered—“I love thee,”

Ellen Evelina.
Oft I think, against my will,

Ellen Evelina,
Notwithstanding all I see
Bright and beautiful in thee,
That thou lovest, oh my belle !
Thy enchanting self too well,
To give love enough to me,

Ellen Evelina.
Thou hast chosen,-so have I, -

Ellen Evelina;
In thy track I'll cease to run,
I will end as I begun :
She whom I would choose for life,
For my love, my friend, my wife,
Must have heart, and thou hast none,

Ellen Evelina.

BROKEN SILENCE. By J. Westland Marston, author of the “ Patrician's Daughter." O BREAK not her silence !—she listens to voices

Whose tones are a feeling, whose echoes a thrill; And more than in aught that is real she rejoices lo dreams which presage what they ne'er can fulfil,

The dreams, the first fond dreams of love!

O, break not her silence !-her heart is replying

To chords that are swept by a breeze from the past; No hymn in the present can match with that sigbing O'er hopes which, though vanished, were dear to the last,

The hopes, the first bright hopes of youth !

Thou can’st not break her silence !-no word that is spoken

Can now wound her ear, no regret dim her eyes; Thou can’st not break her silence; yet, hark! it is broken, “ Come hither, come hither,”—à voice from the skies !

“ Come hither,”- '-a voice from the skies!



BLUE is the sky, blue is thine eye,

Which shall I call Heaven?
Star is there, and soul is here,

Tell me which is Heaven?
I cannot know unless thou say,
So kin are both in orb and ray,

So full of heavenly feature ;
The fall of dews, the flush of hues,
The tenderness of softened views,
Lovely alike by night or day,

And both of heavenly nature.

Blue is the sky, blue is thine eye,

Both would image Heaven!
Light is there, and love is here,

Each the child of Heaven !
Oh! might it be, and may it be,
That I who worship Heaven in thee,

May so fulfil thy mission,
That light and love from Heaven above,
And star and soul, my bridal dove,
May blend and open Heaven to me,

Charles MACKAY. From “ Legends of the Isles and other poems," 1846.

Once I thought I could adore him,

Rich or poor, beloved the same;
Now I hate him, and abhor him-

Now I loathe his very name-
Spurn'd at, when I sued for pity-

Robb’d of peace and virgin fame.
If my hatred could consume him,

Soul and body, heart and brain,
If my will had power to doom him

To eternity of pain;
I would strike-and die, confessing

That I had not lived in vain.

Oh, if in my bosom lying,

I could work him deadly scathe!
Oh, if I could clasp him, dying,

And receive his parting breath-
In one burst of burning passion

I would kiss him into death !
I would cover with embraces

Lips, that once his love confessed,
And that falsest of false faces,

Mad, enraptured, unrepressed ;-
Then in agony of pity

I would die upon his breast.

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Hon. Mrs. NORTON.
Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay ;
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flow'rs-
Things that are made to fade and fall away,
When they have blossom'd but a few short hours.

Love not, love not
Love not, love not: the thing you love may die-
May perish from the gay and gladsome earth;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky,
Beam on its grave as once upon its birth.

Love not, love not.



Love not, love not: the thing you love may change,
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you;
The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.

Love not, love not.
Love not, love not: oh! warning vainly said,
In present years, as in the years gone by;
Love flings a halo round the dear one's head;
Faultless, immortal-till they change or die.

Love not, love not.


NDER the title of Pastoral and Rural Songs may be included

some of the most beautiful specimens of our early poetical literature. Vast quantities of these songs, once popular among the English people, anterior to the reign of Elizabeth, have perished altogether. Many of them in all probability were never committed to the custody of print and paper, and escaped with the breath of the wandering minstrels who composed and sang them. Others, again, at a somewhat later period, fared but little better at the hands of Time. " The ancient songs of the people,” says D’Israeli the elder, “perished by having been printed in single sheets, and by their humble purchasers having no other library to preserve them than the walls on which they pasted them. Those we now have consist of a succeeding race of ballads,” The pastoral lovesongs, which we owe chiefly to the writers of the age of the

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