THE MAGNET AND THE CHURN.

A magnet hung in a hardware shop, And all around was a loving crop Of scissors and needles, nails and knives, Offering love for all their lives; But for iron the magnet felt no whim, Though he charmed iron, it charmed not him, From needles and nails and knives he'd turn, For he'd set his love on a Silver Churn!

His most aesthetic, Very magnetic Fancy took this turn-- "If I can wheedle A knife or needle, Why not a Silver Churn?"

And Iron and Steel expressed surprise, The needles opened their well drilled eyes, The pen-knives felt "shut up," no doubt, The scissors declared themselves "cut out."

The kettles they boiled with rage, 'tis said, While every nail went off its head, And hither and thither began to roam, Till a hammer came up--and drove it home, While this magnetic Peripatetic Lover he lived to learn, By no endeavor, Can Magnet ever Attract a Silver Churn!

BRAID THE RAVEN HAIR.

Braid the raven hair, Weave the supple tress, Deck the maiden fair In her loveliness; Paint the pretty face, Dye the coral lip.

Emphasize the grace Of her ladyship!

Art and nature, thus allied, Go to make a pretty bride!

Sit with downcast eye, Let it brim with dew; Try if you can cry, We will do so, too.

When you're summoned, start Like a frightened roe; Flutter, little heart, Color, come and go!

Modesty at marriage tide Well becomes a pretty bride!

IS LIFE A BOON?

Is life a boon?

If so? it must befal That Death, whene'er he call, Must call too soon.

Though fourscore years he give, Yet one would pray to live Another moon!

What kind of plaint have I, Who perish in July?

I might have had to die, Perchance, in June!

Is life a thorn?

Then count it not a whit!

Man is well done with it; Soon as he's born He should all means essay To put the plague away: And I, war-worn, Poor captured fugitive, My life most gladly give-- I might have had to live Another morn!

A MIRAGE.

Were I thy bride, Then the whole world beside Were not too wide To hold my wealth of love-- Were I thy bride!

Upon thy breast My loving head would rest, As on her nest The tender turtle dove-- Were I thy bride!

This heart of mine Would be one heart with thine, And in that shrine Our happiness would dwell-- Were I thy bride!

And all day long Our lives should be a song: No grief, no wrong Should make my heart rebel-- Were I thy bride!

The silvery flute, The melancholy lute, Were night owl's hoot To my low-whispered coo-- Were I thy bride!

The skylark's trill Were but discordance shrill To the soft thrill Of wooing as I'd woo-- Were I thy bride!

The rose's sigh Were as a carrion's cry To lullaby Such as I'd sing to thee, Were I thy bride!

A feather's press Were leaden heaviness To my caress.

But then, unhappily, I'm not thy bride!

A MERRY MADRIGAL.

Brightly dawns our wedding day; Joyous hour, we give thee greeting!

Whither, whither art thou fleeting?

Fickle moment, prithee stay!

What though mortal joys be hollow?

Pleasures come, if sorrows follow: Though the tocsin sound, ere long, Ding dong! Ding dong!

Yet until the shadows fall Over one and over all, Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la!

Let us dry the ready tear; Though the hours are surely creeping, Little need for woeful weeping, Till the sad sundown is near.

All must sip the cup of sorrow-- I to-day and thou to-morrow: This the close of every song-- Ding dong! Ding dong!

What, though solemn shadows fall, Sooner, later, over all?

Sing a merry madrigal-- Fal la!

THE LOVE-SICK BOY.

When first my old, old love I knew, My bosom welled with joy; My riches at her feet I threw; I was a love-sick boy!

No terms seemed too extravagant Upon her to employ-- I used to mope, and sigh, and pant, Just like a love-sick boy!

But joy incessant palls the sense; And love, unchanged will cloy, And she became a bore intense Unto her love-sick boy!

With fitful glimmer burnt my flame, And I grew cold and coy, At last, one morning, I became Another's love-sick boy!