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THE SCULPTOR.

So you commanded-" Carve, against I come,
A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was,
Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free,

Who rises 'neath the lifted myrtle-branch:
Praise those who slew Hipparchus,' cry the guests,
While o'er thy head the singer's myrtle waves,
As erst above our champions': stand up, all!''
See, I have laboured to express your thought!

Robert Browning.

THE PROUDEST LADY.

THE queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her maids so fine;
But the proudest lady that ever was known
Is a little lady of mine.

And oh she flouts me, she flouts me,
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me;
Though I drop on my knee and sue for grace,
And beg, and beseech, with the saddest face,

Still ever the same she doubts me.

She is seven by the kalendar

A lily's almost as tall,

But oh this little lady's by far

The proudest lady of all.

It's her sport and pleasure to flout me,

To spurn, and scorn, and scout me;

But ah! I've a notion it's nought but play,

And that, say what she will and feign what she may,

She can't well do without me!

THE PROUDEST LADY.

When she rides on her nag away,
By park, and road, and river,
In a little hat so jaunty and gay,
Oh! then she's prouder than ever!
And oh what faces, what faces!
What petulant, pert grimaces!
Why, the very pony prances and winks,
And tosses his head, and plainly thinks
He may ape her airs and graces.

But at times, like a pleasant tune,
A sweeter mood o'ertakes her;
Oh! then she's sunny as skies of June,
And all her pride forsakes her.

Oh! she dances round me so fairly!
Oh! her laugh rings out so rarely!

Oh! she coaxes and nestles, and purrs and pries
In my puzzled face with her two great eyes,
And says, "I love you dearly!”

Oh! the queen is proud on her throne,
And proud are her maids so fine;
But the proudest lady that ever was known
Is this little lady of mine.

Good lack she flouts me, she flouts me,
And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me;

But ah! I've a notion its nought but play,

And that, say what she will and feign what she may,
She can't well do without me!

T. Westwood.

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FAIR INES.

To dazzle when the sun is down
And rob the world of rest.

She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

Oh, turn again, fair Ines!

Before the fall of night,

For fear the moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivall'd bright.

And blessed will the lover be,
That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek,

I dare not even write!

Would I had been, fair Ines,

That gallant cavalier,

Who rode so gaily by thy side

And whisper'd thee so near!—

Were there no loving dames at home,

Or no true lovers here,

That he should cross the seas to win

The dearest of the dear?

I saw thee, lovely Ines,

Descend along the shore,

With a band of noble gentlemen,

And banners waved before,

And gentle youths and maidens gay-And snowy plumes they wore ;

It would have been a beauteous dream,

-If it had been no more!

Alas, alas fair Ines!

She went away with song,

With music waiting on her steps

And shoutings of the throng.

BARBARA.

And some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only music's wrong,

In sounds that sang, Farewell, farewell,
To her you've loved so long.

Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its decks,
Nor danced so light before.
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore;

The smile that blest one lover's heart,

Has broken many more!

BARBARA.

Thomas Hood.

ON the Sabbath-day,

Through the churchyard old and grey,

Over the crisp and yellow leaves, I held my rustling way; And amid the words of mercy, falling on my soul like balms; 'Mong the gorgeous storms of music-in the mellow organ-calms, 'Mong the upward-streaming prayers, and the rich and solemn psalms, I stood heedless, Barbara!

My heart was otherwhere

While the organ fill'd the air,

And the priest, with outspread hands, bless'd the people with a prayer; But, when rising to go homeward, with a mild and saint-like shine Gleam'd a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on mineGleam'd and vanish'd in a moment. Oh, the face was like to thine, Ere you perish'd, Barbara!

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