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“Won't do,” said Sam. “Never sign a walentine with your own name."
“ Sign it ‘Pickvick,' then,” said Mr. Weller; “its a wery good name, and a easy one to spell.”
“ The wery thing,” said Sam. “I could end with a werse; what do you think ?”
“I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. “I never know'd & respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he wos hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."
But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter
" Your love-sick
THE POOR AND THE RICH.-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL
THE rich man's son inherits lands,
The rich man's son inherits cares.
What does the poor man's son inherit?
THE ENCHANTED ISLE-BENJ. F. TAYLOR.
A WONDERFUL stream is the river Time,
As it runs through the realm of tears,
And blends with the ocean of years.
How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow,
And the summers like buds between, And the years in the sheaf, so they come and they go, On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow,
As it glides in the shadow and sheen.
There's a musical islo up the river Time,
Where the softest of airs are playing; There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime,
And the tunes with the roses are staying;
And the name of this isle is the Long Ago;
And we bury our treasures there;
There are trinkets and tresses of hair
There are fragments of songs, that nobody sings,
And a part of an infant's prayer; There's a lute unswept, and a harp without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings,
And the garments she used to wear. There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore
By the mirage is lifted in air; And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before,
When the wind down the river is fair.
Oh! remembered for aye, be the blessed isle,
All the day of life, till the night; And when evening comes with the beautiful smile, And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of soul bo in sight.
PYRAMUS AND TRISBE.
PYRAMUS AND THISBE.-J. G. SAXE.
This tragical tale, which, they say, is a true one,
Young PETER PYRAMUS–I call him Peter,
Either noble or boor
In years, I ween,
He was rather green, That is to say, he was just eighteen,A trifle too short, and a shaving too lean, But 6 a nice young man
as ever was seen, And fit to dance with a May-day queen!
Now Peter loved a beautiful girl
That every young maid,
And every young blade,
But (a-lack-a-day, for the girl and boy !)
So Thisbe's father and Peter's mother
But who ever heard
Or even deferred,
Which wasn't so thick
But removing a brick
Laid a nice little plot
To meet at a spot
For the plan was all laid,
By the youth and the maid, (Whose hearts, it would seem, were uncommonly bold ones.) To run off and get married in spite of the old ones. In the shadows of evening, as still as a mouse, The beautiful maiden slipped out of the house, The mulberry-tree impatient to find, While Peter, the vigilant matrons to blind, Strolled leisurely out, some minutes behind.
While waiting alone by the trysting tree,
A terrible lion