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OU'RE clever at drawing, I own,"
Said my beautiful cousin, Lisette,

As we sat by the window alone,

"But say, can you paint a Coquette ? "

"She's painted already," quoth I;


Nay, nay!" said the laughing Lisette, "Now, none of your joking,--but try And paint me a thorough Coquette."

"Well, cousin," at once I began

In the ear of the eager Lisette, "I'll paint you as well as I can

That wonderful thing, a Coquette.

"She wears a most beautiful face

(Of course!-said the pretty Lisette),

And isn't deficient in grace,

Or else she were not a Coquette.

"And then she is daintily made

(A smile from the dainty Lisette),

By people expert in the trade

Of forming a proper Coquette.

"She's the winningest ways with the beaux
(Go on!-said the winning Lisette),
But there isn't a man of them knows
The mind of the fickle Coquette!

"She knows how to weep and to sigh
(A sigh from the tender Lisette),
But her weeping is all in my eye,-
Not that of the cunning Coquette !

"In short, she's a creature of art

(O hush!—said the frowning Lisette), With merely the ghost of a heart,— Enough for a thorough Coquette.




"And yet I could easily prove
(Now, don't! said the angry Lisette),
The lady is always in love,-

In love with herself,-the Coquette !

"There,―do not be angry,—you know,
My dear little cousin Lisette,
You told me a moment ago

To paint you-a thorough Coquette!"

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DIVINE, O delightful legacy of a spotless reputation!

Rich is the inheritance it leaves, the example it testifies! Pure, precious, and imperishable the hope which it inspires! Can there be conceived a more atrocious injury than to filch from its possessor this inestimable benefit; to rob society of its charm, and solitude of its solace; not only to outlaw life, but to attaint death, converting the very grave, the refuge of the sufferer, into the gate of infamy and of shame! I can conceive of but few crimes beyond it.

He who plunders my property takes from me that which can be repaired by time. But what period can repair a ruined reputation? He who maims my person, effects that which medicine may remedy. But what herb has sovereignty over the wounds of slander? He who ridicules my poverty, or reproaches my profession, upbraids me with that which industry may retrieve, and integrity may purify. But what riches shall redeem a bankrupt fame? What power shall blanch the sullied snow of character? There can be no injury more deadly. There can be no crime more cruel. It is without remedy; without antidote; without evasion.

The reptile, calumny, is ever on the watch. From the fascination of its eye, no activity can escape. From the venom of its fang, no sanity can recover. It has no enjoyment but crime; no prey but virtue; no interval from the restlessness of its malice, save when, bloated with its victims, it grovels, to disgorge them at the withered shrine where envy idolizes her own infirmities.





ONE in her child like purity
Out from the golden day;

Fading away in the light so sweet,

Where the silver stars and the sunbeams meet,
Over the silent way.

Over the bosom tenderly

The pearl-white hands are pressed,

The lashes lie on her cheeks so thin,

Where the softest blush of the rose hath been,

Shutting the blue of her eyes within,

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Over the sweet brow lovingly

Twineth her sunny hair;

She was so fragile that love sent down,

From his heavenly gems, that soft, bright crown,
To shade her brow with its waves so brown,
Light as the dimpling air.

Gone to sleep with the tender smile
Froze on her silent lips

By the farewell kiss of her dewy breath,
Cold in the clasp of the angel of death;
Like the last fair bud of a faded wreath,

Whose bloom the white frost nips.

Robin, hushed in your downy bed,
Over the swinging bough,--.

Do you miss her voice from your glad duet-
When the dew in the heart of the rose is set,
Till its velvet lips, with its essence wet,
In orient crimson glow?

Rosebud,-under your shady leaf,

Hid from the sunny day,

Do you miss the glance of her eye so bright,



Whose blue was heaven to your

timid sight?

It is beaming now in a world of light,

Over the starry way.

Hearts,--where the darling's head hath lain,
Held by love's shining ray,-

Do you know that the touch of her gentle hand
Brightens the harp in the unknown land,-
That she waits for us with the angel-band,
Over the starry way?

EE that painted spectre,

What foul demon wrecked her
Hoard of youthful sweets?
Made a crime of loveliness;
Oh! 'twas Dress!-'twas Dress!

Look upon that reeling,

Haggard man of care,

Down the back streets stealing,

Roaming anywhere!

What hath done this? Pause and think!

"Twàs Drink!-'twas Drink!

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Lying on the pavement

Dead, in her despair,
What 'neath sin's enslavement
Brought a thing so fair?
Scarcely than a demon less!

What hath brought this? It was Dress!

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DAY of vengeance, without morrow!

Earth shall end in flame and sorrow,

As from Saint and Seer we borrow.

Ah! what terror is impending,
When the Judge is seen descending,
And each secret veil is rending.

To the throne, the trumpet, sounding,
Through the sepulchres resounding,
Summons all, with voice astounding.

Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking,
When, the grave's long slumber breaking,
Man to judgment is awaking.

On the written Volume's pages,
Life is shown in all its stages-—
Judgment-record of past ages!

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