But sleep, little pigeon, and fold your wings, —
Little blue pigeon with mournful eyes;
Am I not singing? — see, I am swinging —

Swinging the nest where my darling lies.

"GOOD-BY-GOD BLESS YOU!"

I

LIKE the Anglo-Saxon speech

With its direct revealings;

It takes a hold, and seems to reach

Way down into your feelings;
That some folk deem it rude, I know,
And therefore they abuse it;

But I have never found it so,

Before all else I choose it.

I don't object that men should air
The Gallic they have paid for,

With "Au revoir," "Adieu, ma chere,"

For that 's what French was made for.

But when a crony takes your hand

At parting, to address you,

He drops all foreign lingo and

He says, "Good-by-God bless you!"

This seems to me a sacred phrase,

With reverence impassioned,

A thing come down from righteous days,
Quaintly but nobly fashioned;

It well becomes an honest face,

A voice that 's round and cheerful;

It stays the sturdy in his place,

And soothes the weak and fearful.
Into the porches of the ears

It steals with subtle unction,
And in your heart of hearts appears
To work its gracious function;
And all day long with pleasing song

It lingers to caress you,

I'm sure no human heart goes wrong

That's told "Good-by- God bless you!"

I love the words, — perhaps because,
When I was leaving Mother,
Standing at last in solemn pause
We looked at one another,
And I - I saw in Mother's eyes

The love she could not tell me,
A love eternal as the skies,

Whatever fate befell me ;

She put her arms about my neck
And soothed the pain of leaving,

And though her heart was like to break,

She spoke no word of grieving; She let no tear bedim her eye,

For fear that might distress me, But, kissing me, she said good-by, And asked our God to bless me.

HORACE TO PHYLlis.

COME, Phyllis, I've a cask of wine

That fairly reeks with precious juices,

And in your tresses you shall twine
The loveliest flowers this vale produces.

My cottage wears a gracious smile, -
The altar, decked in floral glory,
Yearns for the lamb which bleats the while
As though it pined for honors gory.

Hither our neighbors nimbly fare,

-

The boys agog, the maidens snickering; And savory smells possess the air

As skyward kitchen flames are flickering.

You ask what means this grand display, This festive throng, and goodly diet? Well, since you're bound to have your way, I don't mind telling, on the quiet.