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NUGJE METRICS.

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NUGJE METRICS. On a White Rose presented by the Duke of Clarence, a Yorkist, to the Lady Elizabeth Beauchamp, a Lancastrian Lady —as the Legend has it. If this White Rose offend thy sight, It in thy bosom wear, 'Twill blush to find itself less white, And turn Lancastrian there. CONGRBVE is said to have added the following stanza :— But if thy ruby lip it spy, To kiss it should'st thou deign, With envy pale 'twill lose its dye, And Yorkist turn again, Si, mea Cara tibi rosa non arriserit alba, Pone tuo nivibus candidisre sinu. Turn, minus alba, dabit manifesti signa pudoris, At que erit ante oculos mox rosa rubra tuos. Tu cave purpureis formosi gratia floris Eliciat labrio oscula crebra tuis, Invida ne tanto vultusque orisque decore Palleat, et fiat, qua; fuit, alba rosa.—HALFORD. ON THE DEATH OP A YOUNG LADY NAMED ROSE. Elle etait de ce monde, ou les plus belles Choses ont Ie pire destin; Et Rose vecut comme les roses L'espace d'un matin MALHERBE. Ah Rosa! fata vocant et quicquid amabile quiequid Formosum, aut prestans sit, cadit ante diem; Tuque peris, veluti rosa, flos suavissimus horti, Una dies flori condigit, una ♦ STANZAS—THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. Rest is sweet: thou shalt rest on the shore of the Isle of the Sirens." W HEWELL. ■' He spoke of the beautiful gardens, whieh he said stretched out before him, and were filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon their faces; then whispered, it was Eden."—Boz. Where shall I search for thee, Land of the bless'd ? When shall I meet with thee, Island of rest ? Sages have dream'd of thee, Poets have sung,- And was it but falsehooll That dropp'd from their tongue ? That Island of Rest I have Sought for in vain; It Inust lie 'twixt the two seas of Pleasure and pain! Life always reflects Now a smile, now a tear,— Isle of the Sirens Thou canst not be here. From childhood I loved all The grand mystic stories — The songs of bright Hellas, And old Roman glories I read, and I longed for Their Isles of the Bless'd, Dut life is too real For a dream-land of rest; Try the wine-cup—the dice-box— Try love. or try fame, Try pleasure-or SOITOW- The end is thc same 1 Custom can rob even Vice of its charm— But it brings not the feeling Of passionless calm. Isle of the Sirens Thou never canst be Aught save a beautiful Vision to me Then brace up each sinew, And join the world-strife — Ah no Halcyon broods O'er the billows of life.

5arÚtieø.

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