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THE BILLET-DOUX.

Look on her storied tablet

The page thy soul reveres-
Doth it tell of storm or sunshine?
Of smiles or bitter tears?

Farewell! perchance we meet no more
Upon this dreary earth;
Fill up! for parting hours should be
The tempest-time of mirth;
Be there one word for a talisman
Fore 'er 'twixt thee and me-
A spell to conjure pleasant dreams
That word is 'CONSTANCY.'

THE BILLET-DOUX.

IN ages long past, when the Paphian bower
Was dear to the Graces, and sacred to Love,
With wings like a zephyr's, from flower to flower,
There moved in its shadows a beautiful dove.

And over the pillow of Cupid was heard
At morn and at evening the song of his bird.

But Cupid, who fled from the side of his mother,
To rove with Ianthe and play with her hair,
Committing one negligence after another,

Was banished a season from Paphos the fair. Temptation avoid!' cried the goddess-Love heard And fled, but Janthe protected his bird.

SONG.

With Reason to tutor him into his duty,

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His plumage all clipped, (for he strove to be free,) They carried him far from the bower of beauty,

To where a dark island arose on the sea. Love wept, for no longer, to soothe him, he heard Ianthe's soft voice or the song of his bird.

One eve, as they gazed on the day that was dying, From the western pavilions of crimson and blue, The silver-winged dove through the sunset came flying,

And bore from Ianthe a kind billet-doux. Both snatched at the darling, but said not a word, While Love got the letter, and Reason the bird.

SONG.

BY RUFUS DAWES.

"Tis the season of tender delight,

The season of fresh-springing flowers; The green earth is covered with spangles of white, And Love leads the rapturous hours.

Cad Nature is loud in her transport of pleasure,

l'he valleys and mountains reecho her lay ; The robin now warbles his love-breathing measure,

And scatters the blossoms while tilting the spray. One impulse of tenderness thrills thro' the groves, While the birds carol sweetly their innocent loves.

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The Westwind! how mildly he blows,
What fragrance his light pinions bear-
He breathes, as if fearful to brush from the rose
The dew-drops so tremulous there.

The brook flowing softly among the green cresses,
So lightsomely dashes their branches away,
It seems some fond mother who while she caresses,
Would sportfully, chide her young children at
play.

Hear the minstrel-bee lulling the blossoms to rest,
For the nectar he sips as the wild-flowers guest!

Look out then on Nature, awhile;

Observe her inviting thee now, Benevolence beams in her sunshiny smile, And blandishment sits on her brow ;

Come stray with me, love, where the fountains are flowing,

And wild-flowers cluster to drink of the stream; While watching the lily and daffodil blowing,

No moment of bliss shall so exquisite seem. When Nature invites thee, oh why then delay? While joy is still waking, away! love, away!

THE ANNOYER.

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THE ANNOYER.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes unbidden, every where,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moon-lit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.

He peeps into the warrior's heart

From the tip of a stooping plume,
And the serried spears and the many men

May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,.

And be busy in his dream;

And he 'll float to his eye in the morning light,
Like a ray on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,

And rides on the echo back,

And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,

And flits in his woodland track,

The shade of the wood and the sheen of the river,

The cloud and the open sky

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,

Like the light of your very eye.

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THE ANNOYER.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,

And ponders the silver sea,

For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thoughts has he.

He heaves the waves like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,

Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer:
And profanes the cell of the holy man,
In the shape of a lady fair.

In the darkest night and the bright daylight,
In earth and sea and sky,

In every home of the human thought,
Will Love be lurking nigh.

"

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