And too impatiently stamped with your foot :
Yet I insisted, yet you answered not;
But, with an angry wafture of your hand,
Gave sign for me to leave you: So I did;
Fearing to strengthen that impatience,
Which seemed too much enkindled; and withal
Hoping it was but an effect of humor,
Which sometime hath his hour with every

man.

It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,
And, could it work so much upon your shape,
As it hath much prevailed on your condition,
I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord,
Make me acquainted with your cause of grief.
BRU. I am not well in health, and that is
all.

POR. Brutus is wise, and were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it.

BRU. Why, so I do : - good Portia, go to bed. POR. Is Brutus sick,—and is it physical To walk unbraced, and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed, To dare the vile contagion of the night, And tempt the rheumy and unpurgéd air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus; You have some sick offence within your mind, Which, by the right and virtue of my place, I ought to know of: And upon my knees I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love, and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy; and what men to-night Have had resort to you, for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness.

Bru.

Kneel not, gentle Portia. POR. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus.

Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it expected, I should know no secrets
That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort or limitation,

To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the

suburbs

Of your good pleasure? If it be no more,
Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife.

BRU. You are my true and honorable wife;
As dear to me, as are the ruddy drops
That visit my sad heart.

POR. If this were true, then should I know this secret.

I grant I am a woman; but, withal,

A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife :
I grant I am a woman; but, withal,
A woman well-reputed, Cato's daughter.

gles, endures, and fulfils.

XXI.

I love my Walter profoundly, — you, Maude, though you faltered a week,

["In the Parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well, arched over with the robes of four kinds of trees, withy, oak, elm, and ash, and dedicated to St. Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the mastery thereby."- FULLER.]

A WELL there is in the West country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the West country
But has heard of the well of St. Keyne.

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne,"quoth the countryman, "many a time Drank of this crystal well,

And before the angel summoned her
She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted well
Shall drink before his wife,
A happy man thenceforth is he,
For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first,
Heaven help the husband then!"
The stranger stooped to the well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the waters again.

"You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" He to the countryman said.

But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch.

But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,
For she took a bottle to church."

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

HOME, SWEET HOME.

FROM THE OPERA OF "CLARI, THE MAID OF MILAN."
MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home!
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us here,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with
elsewhere.

Home! home! sweet, sweet home!
There's no place like home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain!
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly that came at my call;-
Give me them! and the peace of mind dearer
than all !

This hearth's our own,
Our hearts are one,

And peace is ours forever!

When I was poor,

Your father's door

Was closed against your constant lover, With care and pain,

I tried in vain

My fortunes to recover.

I said, "To other lands I'll roam, Where Fate may smile on me, love"

I said, "Farewell, my own old home!" And I said, "Farewell to thee, love!" Sing Gille machree, &c.

I might have said,

My mountain maid,

Come live with me, your own true lover; I know a spot,

A silent cot,

Your friends can ne'er discover,

Where gently flows the waveless tide

By one small garden only;

Flashes the lovelight, increasing the glory, Beaming from bright eyes with warmth of the soul,

Telling of trust and content the sweet story,
Lifting the shadows that over us roll.

King, king, crown me the king:

Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king!

Richer than miser with perishing treasure,

Served with a service no conquest could bring; Happy with fortune that words cannot measure, Light-hearted I on the hearthstone can sing. King, king, crown me the king:

Home is the kingdom, and Love is the king.

REV. WILLIAM RANKIN DURYEA.

Without disease, the healthful life; The household of continuance;

The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom joined with simpleness;
The night dischargéd of all care,
Where wine the wit may not oppress;

The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night;
Contented with thine own estate,
Ne wish for death, ne fear his might.

LORD SURREY.

A SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

FROM "THIRD PART OF HENRY VI."

KING HENRY. O God! methinks, it were a happy life,

To be no better than a homely swain;
To sit upon a hill, as I do now,

To carve out dials quaintly, point by point,
Thereby to see the minutes how they run;
How many make the hour full complete;
How many hours bring about the day;
How many days will finish up the year;
How many years a mortal man may live.
When this is known, then to divide the times, –
So many hours must I tend my flock;
So many hours must I take my rest;
So many hours must I contemplate ;
So many hours must I sport myself;

So many days my ewes have been with young;
So many weeks ere the poor fools will yean;
So many years ere I shall shear the fleece :
So minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years,
Passed over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave.
Ah, what a life were this! how sweet! how lovely!
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade
To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep,
Than doth a rich embroidered canopy
To kings that fear their subjects' treachery?

SHAKESPEARE.

THE MEANS TO ATTAIN HAPPY LIFE.

MARTIAL, the things that do attain

The happy life be these, I find, The riches left, not got with pain;

The fruitful ground, the quiet mind, The equal friend; no grudge, no strife;

No charge of rule, nor governance;

THE FIRESIDE.

DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd,
The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,
In folly's maze advance;
Though singularity and pride

Be called our choice, we'll step aside.
Nor join the giddy dance.

From the gay world we 'll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs;
No noisy neighbor enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,
To spoil our heartfelt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies,
And they are fools who roam;
The world hath nothing to bestow,
From our own selves our bliss must flow,
And that dear hut, our home.

Our portion is not large, indeed; But then how little do we need,

For nature's calls are few; In this the art of living lies, To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do.

We 'll therefore relish with content
Whate'er kind Providence has sent,
Nor aim beyond our power;
For, if our stock be very small,
'Tis prudence to enjoy it all,

Nor lose the present hour.

To be resigned when ills betide, Patient when favors are denied,

And pleased with favors given, Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part, This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven.

NATHANIEL COTTON.