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ENIGMA. I

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ENIGMA. Though not the spoit of fortune. oft I fall, Which, ladles, you a wonder do not call And though I seldom rls*. you must not think That I am never on the rivers brink; Or that I'm useless for 1 was designed To be a blessing great to ai, mankind Hear, then, my mystic lay,-I in very old I bad existence ere the aj?e of *o!d I &ttras many lengthened ages boast, As mother earth or yonder stariy host: I was in Paradise at early dawn, I seeinert to sleep upon the ftc),ry lawn, Pure and serene. When Adam was expelled From Eden, there I still my station Inld. To all on eertb I am a real friend The greatest benefits my paths attend Through me no douht the charming vernal bloom Assumes the fairest tints of Flora's loom; With beauties the summer plains abound With teaming plenty Autumn's fields are crowned; 3Jay, winter often finds a pleasing change, t Produced by me amidst its freezing range The year Indeed, thro' all its varied days. My usefulness most strikingly displays Do I seem boastful in my mystic strain ? Or doth it praise too much of self-contain ? Bear with me ladies hills and valleys green Seem fond of me Oil tOW*rilig OAks I'm seen Upon the pinions of the wind I fly; Upon the surface of the ocean die I tremble oftentimes, as if in fear Of some expected danger drawing near The child I am of night as well as day Oft I am wished for, often wished away; I cannot please the fickle human-kind, So prone to grumble nuver quite resigned They cannot do without me, yet they blame, At certain times my highly useful name. I am an ornainent: I deux the fair Sometimes I'm precious, and of value rare: Life I destroy, though hea th I can renew, So varied are the courses f pursue On Rome occasions I so quickly fiy, The ken I bame of the sharpest eye; I'm not a stranger to the human face I tend to love and feeling not disgrace Full in the public view. I sometimes aid The law of punishment by vengeance swayed: With this my story ends, no more I say: The gloomy cloud is past and cleared away. Stapleton. J. HOPS*

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A NEW YrAR'S ACROSTIC. I --f..,.-1

MY BOY MUSE—1857.

AN ENIGMA.

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