Imatges de pÓgina

This is not a world for thee,

Bright-hair'd child, of matchless grace !Thou from sorrow shouldst be free;

Time and grief should spare that face.
Earthly shadows ! past it flit-
Never for a moment sit,
To o’ershadow brow so fair,
Or to tinge that golden hair
With a shade less bright than plays
O’er it now from morning's rays,-

Come away ! come away ! come !




So, so, my little romp! you'd spoil my quill ?

I'll match you for that trick, as sure as fate : Life would be nought but play, if you conld will;

But just one moment for your portrait wait !

What mean you by that pouting lip, where smiles

Rebellious dimple, spite of all the skill That's used to hide them? Vain your thousand wiles

To make me lay aside this tedious quill !


Laugh out, right merrily, if I must cease!

For I as soon shall hope to mock a bird As to give rythm's mirth the wild release

Which through thy strain of joy is pealing hea

Ah! silent still ?—then I must sketch thy face :

There ! sit thee down, and look upon me well ; Try and be quiet while its form I trace;

Sit, merry Fanny !—I'll requite thee well.

Those mischief-loving eyes, of deepest blue,

I shall not with a poet's fondness sing; Though I might linger o'er their charming hue

Or dwell on each bright glance they gaily fling,

Challenging all who love a jocund hour

To soine bright spot where thou and glee preside; Lest, when some after-gazer feels their power, Their merry radiance should my

skill deride :

Oh! most demure, no doubt, they can appear,

If drooping lids and sweeping fringes hide The roguish glance, that only seems to fear

While lurking in its saucy triumph's pridel

I've done with them; for much too bright they glow

With playful light for me to seize its ray; And, if I look upon them long, I know

They'll only tempt me from my pen, to play!

The rose's blush is bright, and so is thine ;

The peach not rounder, softer, than thy cheek; Such bright brown hair I 've rarely seen entwine

A brow, that, but for gladness, would be meek.

Unloose those coaxing arms-I'll not be bought

By their caressing arts to check my lay !Ah! even while I vow, I'm fairly caught,

And down my poor quill goes, to join thy play!


All lovers of children will readily forgive the introduction of the two personally addressed pieces on “Minnie” and “Fanny;" for, however feebly pourtrayed, they each form a generally applicable type of childhood-life's sweetest season, ere conventional caprices interfere with and encumber Nature's own ever lovely and varied attractions.

With regard to the “Sonnet to Miss Isabel Dickinson," on the opposite page, it may seem necessary to say, that it is but a poor though sincere tribute to the striking effect she is capable of creating in a line of histrionic art, as difficult to excel in as it is exposed to vulgar misappreciation. Those who best know her, know how well she deserves to bear the palm for her great ability as an actress, in the line she has more particularly addressed her brilliant talents to render peculiarly her own. The character of Hyacinth was chosen by the author, more on account of the classic associatiou of the name than for its capabilities to display to the best advantage the spirited acting of the young artiste.

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