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The Bachelor's Dilemma.

"With a bosom whose chords are so tenderly strung, That a word, nay, a look, oft will waken its sighs; With a face, like the heart-searching tones of her tongue, Full of music that charms both the simple and wise.

"In my moments of mirth, amid glitter and glee, When the soul takes the hue that is brightest of any, From her sister's enchantment my spirit is free,

And the bumper I crown is a bumper to Fanny!

"But when shadows come o'er me of sickness or grief, And my heart with a host of wild fancies is swelling, From the blaze of her brightness I turn for relief

To the pensive and peace-breathing beauty of Helen.

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"And when sorrow and joy are so blended together, That to weep I'm unwilling, to smile am as loath; When the beam may be kick'd by the weight of a feather, I would fain keep it even by wedding them both.

"But since I must fix or on black eyes or blue,

Quickly make up my mind 'twixt a Grace and a Muse, Pr'ythee, Venus, instruct me that course to pursue Which even Paris himself had been puzzled to choose."

Thus murmur'd a Bard, predetermined to marry,

But so equally charm'd by a Muse and a Grace, That though one of his suits might be doom'd to miscarry, He'd another he straight could prefer in its place.

So, trusting that "Fortune would favour the brave,"
He ask'd each in her turn, but they both said him nay.
Lively Fanny declared he was somewhat too grave,
And Saint Helen pronounced him a little too gay.

IN

Tyre.

BY MARY HOWITT.

N thought, I saw the palace domes of Tyre;
The gorgeous treasures of her merchandise;
All her proud people in their brave attire,
Thronging her streets for sport or sacrifice.
I saw the precious stones and spiceries,
The singing girl with flower-wreathed instrument,
And slaves whose beauty ask'd a monarch's price.
Forth from all lands all nations to her went,
And kings to her on embassy were sent.

I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail,
Her ships that of the sea had government.

Oh, gallant ships! 'gainst you what might prevail ! She stood upon her rock, and, in her pride Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied.

I look'd again-I saw a lonely shore,
A rock amid the waters, and a waste

Of trackless sand-I heard the bleak sea's roar,
And winds that rose and fell with gusty haste.
There was one scathed tree, by storm defaced,
Round which the sea-birds wheel'd with screaming cry,
Ere long came on a traveller, slowly paced;
Now east, then west, he turn'd with curious eye,
Like one perplex'd with an uncertainty.

Awhile he look'd upon the sea, and then

Upon a book, as if it might supply

The things he lack'd :—he read, and gazed again;

Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought,

He might not deem this shore the shore he sought.

The Horologe.

Again I saw him come-'twas eventide ;
The sun shone on the rock amid the sea;
The winds were hush'd; the quiet billows sigh'd
With a low swell; the birds wing'd silently
Their evening flight around the scathed tree;
The fisher safely put into the bay,

And push'd his boat ashore, then gather'd he
His nets, and, hasting up the rocky way,
Spread them to catch the sun's warm evening ray.
I saw that stranger's eye gaze on the scene.
"And this was Tyre!" said he. "How has decay

Within her palaces a despot been!

Ruin and silence in his courts are met,

And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net!"

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ON

The Horologe.

BY T. DOUBLEDAY.

NCE, by the dusk light of an ancient hall,
I saw a Horologe. Its minutes fell

Upon the roused ear with a drowsy knell,
That he who pass'd attended to the call.

I look'd; and lo! five Antics over all.

One moved, and four were motionless. The one
Was scythed and bald-head Time; and he mow'd on,
Sweep after sweep,-and each a minute's fall.

The four were kings. Sceptres they bore, and globes
And ermined crowns. Before that old man dim
They stood, but not in joy. At sight of Time
They had stiffen'd into statues in their robes,
Fear-petrified. Let no man envy him
Who smiles at that grave Homily sublime!

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Shoots through the yellow pane;

It makes the faded crimson bright,
And gilds the fringe again :
The window's Gothic framework falls
In oblique shadows on the walls.

And since those trappings first were new,

How many a cloudless day,

To rob the velvet of its hue,

Has come and pass'd away!

How many a setting sun hath made
That curious lattice-work of shade!

Crumbled beneath the hillock green,
The cunning hand must be,

That carved this fretted door, I ween,
Acorn, and fleur-de-lis ;

And now the worm hath done her part
In mimicking the chisel's art.

In days of yore (as now we call)
When the first James was king,
The courtly knight from yonder hall
His train did hither bring;

All seated round in order due,

With 'broider'd suit and buckled shoe.

The Squire's Pew.

On damask cushions deck'd with fringe,

All reverently they knelt;

Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge,
In ancient English spelt,

Each holding in a lily hand,

Responsive to the priest's command.

Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle,
The sunbeam long and lone,
Illumes the characters awhile,

Of their inscription stone;

And there, in marble hard and cold,
The knight with all his train behold:

Outstretch'd together are express'd
He and my lady fair;

With hands uplifted on the breast,
In attitude of prayer;
Long-visaged, clad in armour, he-
With ruffled arm and bodice, she..

Set forth in order, as they died,
Their numerous offspring bend,
Devoutly kneeling side by side,
As if they did intend

For past omissions to atone,

By saying endless prayers in stone.

Those mellow days are past and dim;
But generations new,

In regular descent from him,

Have fill'd the stately pew; And in the same succession go To occupy the vault below.

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