English

Far from these bankes exiled be all joyes,
Contentments, pleasures, musick, care's reliefe,
Tears, sighs, plaints, horrours, frightments, sad annoies
Invest these mountaines, fill all hearts with griefe.

Here nightingals and turtles vent your moanes;
Amphrisian shepheard here come feed thy flocks,
And read thy hyacinth amidst our groanes,
Plaine, Eccho, thy Narcissus from our rocks.

Lost have our meads their beauty, hills their gemms,
Our brooks their christall, groves their pleasant shade,

Beautiful old Moon! a sennight ago thou wast young:
Now from west unto east the weight of thy head is hung.
Ah, Moon, Moon! where in the world hast thou been,
To grow so old in a week? What in the world hast thou seen?

And it seems that I hear her say, “Two lovers lay heart to heart,
Only a week ago; and now I have watched them part.”
Only a week ago? To me it seems as a year:
Autumn has gone, and winter has come; and the woods are sere.

Ah, Moon, Moon! When thy head was turned to the west,

S — y thou dearest soft Retreat adieu
Methink I tremble at the leaving you;
You, whose safe Harbour kindly did receive,
My Shipwrack'd Vessel and gave means to live:
With Gilded Stern and Gaudy Sails I mov'd,
Fraught with this Wish, be Great and be Belov'd.
My Pageant Bark undauntedly I steer'd,
No Rocks nor Wind, nor Enemies I fear'd:
Young and unskill'd in this unlucky Sea,
For want of Ballast, Storms did ruin me.
That blast of Hell, rude spiteful Pop'ler breath,
Tore all my Sails and threaten'd sudden Death;

BY MRS. AMELIA B. WELDY .

Like flowers that softly bloom together,
Upon one fair and fragile stem,
Mingling their sweets in sunny weather,
Ere strange rude hands have parted them:
So were we linked unto each other,
Sweet Sisters! in our childish hours,
For then one fond and gentle Mother
To us was like the stem to flowers.
She was the golden thread that bound us

The greatest gift that from their lofty thrones
The all-governing pow'rs to man can give,
Is, that he never breath, or breathing once
A suckling end his daies, and leave to live;
For then he neither knows the woe nor joy
Of life, nor feares the Stygian lake's annoy.

The angry winds not aye
Do cuff the roaring deep,
And though heavens often weep,
Yet do they smile for joy when comes dismay:
Frosts do not ever kill the pleasant flow'rs,
And love hath sweets when gone are all the soures.
This said a shepheard, closing in his armes
His deare, who blusht to feele love's new alarmes.

Will this be true? Oh, it sounds like true!
Is Jeffreys dead at last?
They say that the breath he drew for death
Went out like a furnace blast.

They say he cried so horribly,
That no one durst come nigh;
But only a bat and an old grey rat
Sat up to see him die.

They came at morn and found him dead,
Alone on his truss of straw:
And the hair stood up on the corpse's head
At that which the dead eyes saw.

So horribly the dead eyes stared; —
That last sight had so frozen them, —

O ye, that seek through blood and tears
The justice which kind earth hath lacked,
Marvel not ye because man fears
To drop his old coercion act.

Whose record in the past was dark
Sees darkness in the future too;
Because with iron he made his mark,
By that same brand he judges you.

The unborn age afflicts his mind,
Of powers misused he stands afraid;
Haunted he goes, and hears behind
The worn and wasteful past upbraid.

His stripes ye bear; but when ye gain
Your victory — then comes recompense,

A WITCHCRAFT CASE OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY

Once, upon the spring of day
On the summer side of May,
Good men faring forth to toil,
Ere the sun had warmed the soil,
Found an old crone, withered, worn,
Sitting by a field of corn.

There amid the springing green
Of the young blades she was seen
Bending an attentive head
To the new year's make of bread.
And wherever wheat stood high,
Testing it with careful eye
And brown fingers, lean and long,
Thus she crooned her wheat-ear song:

BY MRS. ANNE P. DINNIES .

Come, rouse thee, dearest! — 't is not well
To let the spirit brood
Thus darkly o'er the cares that swell
Life's current to a flood.
As brooks, and torrents, rivers, all,
Increase the gulf in which they fall,
Such thoughts, by gathering up the rills
Of lesser griefs, spread real ills;
And, with their gloomy shades, conceal
The land-marks Hope would else reveal.

Come, rouse thee, now — I know thy mind,