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Those two gate-way sycamores you see
Then were planted, just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-three!

Those two gate-way sycamores you see.

There's the orchard where we used to climb

When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb!

There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails,
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where so sly I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising,
Traps and trails,

There the rude three-cornered chestnut rails.

How in summer have I traced that stream,

There through mead and woodland sweetly gliding,

Luring simple trout with many a scheme

From the nooks where I have found them hiding;

All a dream!

How in summer have I traced that stream.

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;

Pond, and river still serenely flowing;

Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane,

Where the lily of my heart was blowing,

MARY JANE!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain!

There's the gate on which I used to swing,

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable:

But, alas! the morn shall no more bring

That dear group around my father's table;

Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing!

I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled;

Yon green meadow was our place for playing;
That old tree can tell of sweet things said,
When around it Jane and I were straying;
She is dead!

I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled!

Yon white spire--a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,

So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother,
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod,
Sire and sisters, and my little brother;
Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson!-but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever!
Peaceful days!

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

There my Mary blest me with her hand,
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
Ere she hastened to the spirit land:

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing:
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand.

I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core;

I have come to see that grave once more.

Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade,

I, all withering with years, shall perish;
With my Mary may I there be laid,
Join forever-all the wish I cherish-
Her dear Shade!-

Haply, ere the verdure there shall fade.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now why I sit here thou hast been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow,— Down it rolled;

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

By the way-side, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape like a page perusing;
Poor, unknown,

By the way-side, on a mossy stone.

Henry William Herbert.

BORN in London, England, 1807. DIED in New York, N. Y., 1858.

COME BACK.

[By permission of Mrs. Margaret Herbert Mather.-Poems of Frank Forester. Collected and Edited by Morgan Herbert. A Memorial Volume. 1887.]

COME back and bring my life again

That went with thee beyond my will!
Restore me that which makes me man
Or leaves me wretched, dead and chill!
Thy presence was of life a part;

Thine absence leaves the blank of death.
They wait thy presence-eye and heart,
With straining gaze and bated breath.

The light is darkness, if thine eyes
Make not the medium of its ray;

I see no star in evening skies,

Save thou look up and point the way.
Nor bursting buds in May's young bloom,
Nor sunshine rippling o'er the sea,
Bears up to heaven my heart's perfume
Save thou my monitor can be.

There are two paths for human feet--
One bordered by a duty plain,
And one by phantoms cursed, yet sweet,
Bewildering heart and maddening brain;

The one will right and reason urge,

But thou must walk beside me there,

Or else I tread the dizzy verge,

And thou some guilt of loss must bear.

Come back, there is no cause on earth-
No word of shame-no deed of wrong-
Can bury all of truth and worth,

And sunder bonds once firm and strong.
There is no duty, heaven-imposed,

That, velvet-gloved-an iron band

Upon my heart-strings crushed and closed-
Thy hate should all my love withstand.

Days seem like ages-and, ere long,

On senseless ears the cry may fall;
Or, stilled by bitter shame and wrong,
The pleading voice may cease to call.
VOL. VI.-22

Come back! before the eyes grow dim

That keep but sight to see thee come,

Ere fail and falter hand and limb,

Whose strength but waits to fold thee home.

JUS

A GOOD FEED, DULY DEFENDED.

[My Shooting Box. By Frank Forester. 1846.]

UST as Forester stood up, not a little nettled, Timothy threw the door open, and said,

"T' dinner's upon t' teable, please sur."

And thereupon Frank's face relaxed into a mild and placid smile, and drawing Tom's arm under his own,

"Allow me the honor," he said, "Mistress Draw, to hand you in to dinner."

"No you don't, little wax-skin-no you don't-not through that door no how, we'd git stuck there, boy,-and they'd niver pull us out; and we'd starve likely with the smell o' the dinner in our noses, and the champagne a bustin' under our eyes out o' the very bottles to be drinked, and us not there to drink it. No, no, we'll run no resks now."

And with the words they passed into the dining-room, arranged as on the previous evening except that, for two covers, four were now laid on the white damask cloth, and that a pair of tall silver wine-coolers occupied the centre of the table with the long necks of hock and champagne flasks protruding.

At the left of each guest stood a pint decanter of delicate strawcolored sherry; and at his right, four glasses, a long stalked beaker of, old-fashioned Venice crystal, a green German hock-glass embossed with grapes and vine leaves, a thin capacious sherry-glass with a curled lip so slender that it almost bent as you drank from it, and a slim-shanked shallow goblet for Bourdeaux or Burgundy.

There was but one comestible, however, on the table, a deep silver tureen, with a most savory and game-like odor exuding from the chinks of its rich cover.

"I would have given you some raw natives to begin with," said Harry, "knowing how much Tom likes them, but we can't get the crustaceous bivalves up hither with distinguished success, until the frost sets in."

"I'm right glad on't, by the Etarnal!" exclaimed Tom, "nasty, cold, chillin', watery trash! jist blowin' out your innards for no good, afore you git to the grist o' dinner-what kind o' soup's that, Timothy?"

"A soup of my own invention "-answered Harry-" and the best soup in the world me judice.-Strong venison soup, made as we make hare soup at home-a good rich stock to begin with, about ten pounds of the lean from the haunch brayed down into the pottage, about a dozen cloves and a pint of port, and, to conclude, the scrag of the neck eut into bits two inches square, done brown in a covered stew-pan, and thrown in with a few forced-meat balls when the soup is ready. You can add, if you please, a squeeze of a lemon and a dash of cayenne, which I think improve it. It is piping hot; and not bad I think.”

"I have tasted something of the kind in the Highlands, at Blair of Athole," said Frank Forester.

"I have not," replied Harry.

"The Scotch venison soup is made

clear, and though a capital thing, I like this purée better."

"So do I, Harry," said Fred Heneage-" and I should think by the gusto with which you speak of it, that you not only invented, but made it."

"You'd think just about right, then," answered Tom, as he thrust out his plate for a second ladleful. "He and I did make the first bowl of it, as iver was made. And it tuk us a week-yes, a fortnight I guess, before we got it jest right. I will say that for Harry! the darned critter is about as good at bringing game up right on the table as he is at bringing them down right in the field."

"Yes! and for that very thing I have been assailed," said Harry laughing, "as lacking the true spirit of a sportsman, as not enjoying the thing in its high ennobling spirit, as not a pure worshipper in heart and intellectual love of the divine Artemis, but a mere sensualist and glutton, making my belly a god, and degrading my good gun into a mere tool for the slaves of Epicurus!"

"Treason! high treason! name the rash man! hold him up bodily to our indignation!"

"First let us drink!—That pale sherry is delicate and very dry. Will you have champagne, Tom ?—No-very well-Here is a health then to C. E., of the 'Buffalo Patriot.""

"C. E. -Who the devil is C. E.?"-cried all three in a breath. "Alias J. B."

And who then is J. B.?"

"The man wot stabbed me in the tenderest part-which he, I suppose, would say is my abdomen."

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"I am gravely in earnest, when I say that he taxed me seriously, though sportively, with all that I have stated.-He said that, in my admiration of good things, in dwelling on the melting richness of a wood-duck, or the spicy game flavor of a grouse, in preferring a silver

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