THE PASSIONS.-WILLIAM COLLINE

When Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,
From the supporting myrtles round,
They snatched her instruments of sound;
And, as they oft had heard apart
Sweet lessons of her forceful art,
Each, for Madness ruled the hour,
Would prove his own expressive power.
First Fear his hand, its skill to try,
Amid the chords, bewildered laid;
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E'en at the sound himself had made.
Next Anger rushed, his eyes on fire,
In lightnings owned his secret stings;
In one rude clash he struck the lyre,
And swept with hurried hand the strings.
With woeful measures wan Despair,
Low, sullen sounds his grief beguiled;
A solemn, strange, and mingled air;
'Twas sad by fits, by starts 'twas wild.
But thou, O Hope! with eyes so fair,
What was thy delighted measure?
Still it whispered promised pleasure,
And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail.
Still would her touch the strain prolong;
And from the rocks, the woods, the vale,
She called on Echo still through all the song;

And where her sweetest theme she chose,

A soft, responsive voice was heard at every close;
And Hope enchanted smiled, and waved her golden hair.
And longer had she sung; but with a frown

Revenge impatient rose:

He threw his blood-stained sword in thunder down,

And, with a withering look,

The war-denouncing trumpet took,

And blew a blast so loud and dread,

Were ne'er prophetic sounds so full of woe;

And ever and anon he beat

The doubling drum with furious heat;

And, though sometimes, each dreary pause between,
Dejected Pity at his side

Her soul-subduing voice applied,

Yet still he kept his wild, unaltered mien,

While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.

Thy numbers, Jealousy, to naught were fixed;

Sad proof of thy distressful state;

Of differing themes the veering song was mixed, And now it courted Love, now raving called on Hate. With eyes upraised, as one inspired,

Pale Melancholy sat retired,

And, from her wild sequestered seat,
In notes by distance made more sweet,
Poured through the mellow horn her pensive soul;
And dashing soft from rocks around,
Bubbling runnels joined the sound;

Through glades and glooms the mingled measure stole.
Or o'er some haunted stream with fond delay,
Round a holy calm diffusing,

Love of peace and lonely musing,

In hollow murmurs died away.

But, oh! how altered was its sprightlier tone,
When Cheerfulness, a nymph of healthiest hue,
Her bow across her shoulder flung,

Her buskins gemmed with morning dew,

Blew an inspiring air, that dale and thicket rung,—
The hunter's call, to Faun and Dryad known;

The oak-crowned sisters, and their chaste-eyed queen,
Satyrs and sylvan boys, were seen

Peeping from forth their alleys green;

Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear,

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last came Joy's ecstatic trial:

He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;

But soon he saw the brisk, awakening viol,
Whose sweet entrancing vice he loved the best.
They would have thought, who heard the strain,
They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids
Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing:
While, as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with mirth a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound:
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odors from his dewy wings.

THE RING'S MOTTO.

A lover gave the wedding-ring
Into a goldsmith's hand.
"Grave me," he said, "a tender thought
Within the golden band."

The goldsmith graved
With careful art-

"Till death us part."

The wedding-bells rang gladly out.
The husband said, "O wife,
Together we shall share the grief,
The happiness of life.

I give to thee

My hand, my heart,

Till death us part."

'Twas she that lifted now his hand,
(O love, that this should be!)
Then on it placed the golden band,
And whispered tenderly;

"Till death us join,

Lo, thou art mine

And I am thine!

"And when death joins we never more

Shall know an aching heart,

The bridal of that better love

Death has no power to part,

That troth will be
For thee and me
Eternity."

So up the hill and down the hill
Through fifty changing years,
They shared each other's happiness,
They dried each other's tears.
Alas! Alas!

That death's cold dart

Such love can part!

But one sad day-she stood alone
Beside his narrow bed;

She drew the ring from off her hand,
And to the goldsmith said:

"Oh, man who graved

With careful art,

'Till death us part,'

"Now grave four other words for me—
'Till death us join.'" He took
The precious golden band once more,
With solemn, wistful look,

And wrought with care,

For love, not coin,

"Till death us join."

SHONNY SCHWARTZ.-CHARLES F. ADAMS.

Haf you seen mine leedle Shonny?

Shonny Schwartz,

Mit his hair so soft und yellow,

Und his face so blump und mellow;

Sooch a funny leedle fellow,

Shonny Schwartz.

Efry mornings dot young Shonny

Shonny Schwartz

Rises mit der preak off day

Und does his chores oop right avay;

For he gan vork so vell as blay,

Shonny Schwartz.

Mine Katrina says to Shonny,

"Shonny Schwartz

Helb your parents all you gan,
For dis life vas bud a shban,
Py und py you'll been a man,

Shonny Schwartz.

How I lofes to see dot Shonny-

Shonny Schwartz

Vhen he schgampers off to schgool,

Vhere he always minds der rule,

For he vas nopody's fool

Shonny Schwartz.

How I vish dot leedle Shonny

Shonny Schwartz

Could remain von leedle poy,
Alvays full off life und shoy,
Und dot Time vould not annoy

Shonny Schwartz.

Nefer mindt, mine leedle Shonny,
Shonny Schwartz,

Efry day prings someding new;
Alvays keep der righdt in view,
Und baddle, den, your own canoe,
Shonny Schwartz.

Keep her in der channel, Shonny,
Shonny Schwartz,

Life's voyich vill pe quickly o'er,
Und den ubon dot bedder shore,
Ve'll meet again to bart no more,

Shonny Schwartz.

TEACHING HIM THE BUSINESS.

"Herman, said a Poydras street merchant clothier, addressing his clerk, "haf ve sold all of dose overgoats vat vas left over from last vinter?"

"No, sir; dere vas dree of dem left yet."

"Vell, ve must sell 'em right away, as de vinter will not last, you know, Herman. Pring me one uf de goats und I vill show you somedings about de pisness. I vill dell you how ve vill sell dem oud, und you must learn de pisness, Herman; de vinter vas gone, you know, und ve hav had dose goats in de store more es seex years."

An eight-dollar overcoat was handed him by his clerk, and smoothing it out, he took a buck-skin moneypurse from the show-case, and stuffing it full of paper, dropped it into one of the pockets.