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POETRY. ----do-

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POETRY. -do- LOVEISATRtPmR. BY LEIGH CLIFFE, ESQ. Little love is a trifler I own, And mischievous artful, and sly, He will ne'er let ladies alone. Though he ne'er tells its wherefore or why; He smiles to delude, and lie lures to betray, Yet so artful he is, we can't chase him away Little love is an impudent elf, Into every heart he'll intrude I've scolded him often myself. But he still is presuming and rude When I frown he replies with so winning a smile, Thist I freely forgive all his mischievous guile But love is now growing in years, And is truly a (ami,!) man If he dies we will wail him with tears, But we'll keep him alive while we can. Though he is so artful, so false, and so "ly, We all try to lure him, I cannot tell why "COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEUORE." There i^a dreamy sadness ornes floating through my soul; I fly to scenes of gladness, Yet my sorrow spurns controul. For a deep and solemn voice, Foretelling future years, Bids my spirit not rejoice, For its lot is cast in tears. Yet I'struggle, but in vain, To wrestle with my lot; Though the future will be pain, And the past be ne'er forgot. Yes, this sad and trembling heart By a fearful cloud is shaded, Which will never more depart, Till life itself has faded E. C. WlILIAMS.

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