RURAL RAPTURES 'Tis sweet at dewy eve to rove When softly sighs the western breeze, 'Tis sweet to see in daisied field The flocks and herds their pleasure take; In tender chop and juicy steak. 'Tis sweet to hear the murmurous sound When nightingales pour from their throats Yet sweeter 'tis to catch the notes That issue from Threadneedle Street. 4 Unknown. A FRAGMENT His eye was stern and wild-his cheek was pale and cold as clay; Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay. He mused awhile-but not in doubt-no trace of doubt was there; It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair. Once more he looked upon the scroll-once more its words he read Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread. I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue-cold gleaming steel, And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel! A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head The Biter Bit 451 I could not stir-I could not cry-I felt benumbed and dead; Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er; I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more. Again I looked: a fearful change across his face had passed He seemed to rave-on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast; He raised on high the glittering blade-then first I found a tongue "Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung; He heard me, gave, but he heeded not; one glance around he And ere I could arrest his hands, he had-begun to shave! Unknown. THE BITER BIT THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother-I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland-oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings-she does, the demirep! They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood, The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood; And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear, Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere. He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he pressed, By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed; And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again; But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane! He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold, He said I did not love him-he said my words were cold; He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher gameAnd it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same. I did not know my heart, mother-I know it now too late; mate; But no nobler suitor sought me and he has taken wing, And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing. You may lay me in my bed, mother-my head is throbbing sore; And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before; And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child, Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild! William E. Aytoun. Comfort in Affliction 453 COMFORT IN AFFLICTION "WHEREFORE starts my bosom's lord? "Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray, "There, again! that fevered start! "Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er "Since the dawn began to peep, "Oh, what joy it was to see My gentle lord once more awake! Tell me, what is amiss with thee? Speak, or my heart will break!" "Mary, thou angel of my life, Thou ever good and kind; 'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife, The anguish of the mind! "It is not in my bosom, dear, Here in my wisdom tooth! "Then give,--oh, first, best antidote,- To wrap around my head!” William E. Aytoun. THE HUSBAND'S PETITION COME hither, my heart's darling, You need not pull my whiskers I feel a bitter craving- Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine: |