Lazily, lazily,

Here sit I.

Why should I marry me,

Tell me why.

FREDERICK E. WEATHERLY.

LUCKY JONATHAN.
HAPPY man, he has an Eden
Blest and brightened by an Eve-
Garden-plots that need no weeding;
Hoeing, delving, watering, seeding,
Ne'er his placid spirit grieve-
Lucky Jonathan !

Wretched I, too, have an Eden,
But it lacks a helpmate Eve.
Wearing work this thankless weeding,
Hoeing, delving, watering, seeding,—
While you chuckle in your sleeve,
Lucky Jonathan !

E. J. ARMSTRONG.
Foetical Works. (Longmans.)

ON A VERY OLD WEDDING RING.

I LIKE that ring, that ancient ring.

Of massive form, and virgin gold, As firm, as free from base alloy,

As were the sterling hearts of old.

I like it-for it wafts me back,

Far, far along the stream of time,
To other men, and other days,
The men and days of deeds sublime.
But most I like it as it tells

The tale of well-requited love;
How youthful fondness persevered

And youthful faith disdain'd to rove ;How warmly he his suit preferr'd,

Though she, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften'd and subdued, at last,

He won his fair and blooming bride;— How, till the appointed day arrived,

They blamed the lazy-footed hours ;How then the white-robed maiden train Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers;— And how, before the holy man,

They stood in all their youthful pride,

And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows
Which bind the husband to his bride;
All this it tells ;-the plighted troth,

The gift of every earthly thing,

The hand in hand, the heart in heart,-
For this I like that ancient ring.

I like its old and quaint device;

Two blended hearts-though time may wear them, No mortal change, no mortal chance,

"Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them. Year after year, 'neath sun and storm,

Their hopes in heaven, their trust in God,

In changeless, heartfelt, holy love,

These two, the world's rough pathways trod. Age might impair their youthful fires,

Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather, Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on,

Kind souls they slumber now together. I like its simple posy too;

"Mine own dear love, this heart is thine! Thine, when the dark storm howls along, As when the cloudless sunbeams shine. "This heart is thine, mine own dear love! Thine, and thine only, and for ever; Thine, till the springs of life shall fail,

Thine, till the chords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long,

Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Pledge of devoted faithfulness,

Of heartfelt, holy love, the token,— What varied feelings round it cling! For these, I like that ancient ring.

G. W. DOANE.

THE death of nuptial love is sloth :

To keep your mistress in your wife, Keep to the very height your oath, And honour her with arduous life. COVENTRY PATMORE The Angel in the House. (G. Bell.)

ONE of us two must rule, and one obey;
And since in man right reason bears the sway,
Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way.
ALEXANDER POPE

As unto the bow the cord is,
So unto the man is woman,

Though she bends him she obeys him,
Though she draws him, yet she follows,
Useless each without the other.

H. W. LONGFELLOW. Hiawatha.

MAN, nerved by Love, can cheerily sustain
Clash of opposing interests; perplexed web
Of crosses that distracting clog advance:
In thickest storm of contest waxes stronger
At momentary thought of Home, of Her,
His gracious Wife, and bright-faced Joys.
THOMAS WOOLNER.
My Beautiful Lady. (Macmillan.)

I own a fondly faithful wife,
And eke a lively boy;

But things there are in wedded life
That yield me little joy.

My spouse is crying half the day,
My baby half the night.
(And yet the married state, they say,
Is one of calm delight.)
Rule, Britannia, rule the waves:
Britons never will be slaves!

H. S. LEIGH.

THE gentle wife, who decks his board
And makes his day to have no night,
Whose wishes wait upon her lord,

Who finds her own in his delight,
Is she another now than she

Who, mistress of her maiden charms, At his wild prayer, incredibly

Committed them to his proud arms? Unless her choice of him's a slur Which makes her proper credit dim, He never enough can honour her Who past all speech has honour'd him.

COVENTRY Patmore. The Angel in the House. (G. Bell)

A HUMAN heart should beat for two,
Whate'er may say your single scorners;
And all the hearths I ever knew
Had got a pair of chimney-corners.

FREDERICK LOCKER.
London Lyrics. (K. Paul.)

wwwwwwww

THE DEVONSHIRE LANE.

IN a Devonshire lane as I trotted along
T'other day, much in want of a subject for song;
Thinks I to myself, I have hit on a strain,—
Sure marriage is much like a Devonshire lane.
In the first place, 'tis long, and when once you are
in it,

It holds you as fast as the cage holds a linnet;
For howe'er rough and dirty the road may be found,
Drive forward you must, since there's no turning
round.

But though 'tis so long, it is not very wide,
For two are the most that together can ride ;
And e'en there 'tis a chance but they get in a
pother,

And jostle and cross, and run foul of each other.
Old Poverty greets them with mendicant looks,
And Care pushes by them o'erladen with crooks,
And Strife's grating wheels try between them to pass,
Or Stubbornness blocks up the way on her ass.
Then the banks are so high, both to left hand and
right,

That they shut up the beauties around from the sight;

And hence you'll allow, 'tis an inference plain,
That marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.

But, thinks I, too, these banks within which we are pent,

With bud, blossom, and berry, are richly besprent,
And the conjugal fence which forbids us to roam,
Looks lovely, when deck'd with the comforts of
home.

In the rock's gloomy crevice the bright holly grows,
The ivy waves fresh o'er the withering rose,
And the evergreen love of a virtuous wife
Smooths the roughness of care-cheers the winter
of life.

Then long be the journey and narrow the way;
I'll rejoice that I've seldom a turnpike to pay;
And, whate'er others think, be the last to complain,
Though marriage is just like a Devonshire lane.
UNKNOWN.

LET still the woman take

An elder than herself: so wears she to him,
So sways she level in her husband's heart,
For, boy, however we do praise ourselves,
Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm,
More longing, wavering, sooner lost and won,
Then women's are.

WILLIAM SHAKSPERE. Twelfth Night.

A WIFE! ah, gentle deities! can he
That has a wife e'er feel adversity?
Would men but follow what the sex advise,

All things would prosper, all the world grow wise.
ALEXANDER POPE.

Now this is the sum of the matter if ye will be happy in marriage,

Confide, love, and be patient: be faithful, firm, and holy.

MARTIN F. TUPPER. Proverbial Philosophy. (Longmans.)

REMEMBER, few wed whom they would.
And this, like all God's laws, is good;
For nought's so sad, the whole world o'er,
As much love which has once been more.
COVENTRY PATMORE.
The Angel in the House. (G. Bell.)

ON THE WEDDING RING. THIS precious emblem well doth represent "Tis evenness that crowns us with content, Which, when it wanting is, the sacred yoke Becomes uneasy, and with ease is broke.

UNKNOWN.

A MELANCHOLY CHANGE. The weeds she used to "like so "when you smoked, Are seized and safely in some cupboard poked; Decanters, after "just two glasses," stopped, The little drop at night discreetly dropped, Your boots and hat and gloves in closets shut, Your latch-key chucked into the water-butt; No friend of jollier days allowed to call, While rod and gun lie mouldering in the hall; No! marriage is no state to rush on madly, It begins bridal-y, but ends so saddle-y!

ROBERT REECE. Rip Van Winkle. (French.)

A WIFE'S LECTURE TO WIVES.
THY husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,
Thy head, thy sov'reign; one that cares for thee
And for thy maintenance; commits his body
To painful labour both by sea and land,
To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,
Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;
And craves no other tribute at thy hands
But love, fair looks, and true obedience,-
Too little payment for so great a debt.

Such duty as the subject owes the prince,
Even such a woman oweth to her husband;
And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,
And not obedient to his honest will,
What is she but a foul contending rebel,
And graceless traitor to her loving lord?—

I am ashamed that women are so simple
To offer war, where they should kneel for peace;
Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,
When they are bound to serve, love, and obey.
Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth,
Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,
But that our soft conditions and our hearts
Should well agree with our external parts?

WILLIAM SHAKspere. Taming of the Shrew.

III.

E. A. POE.

HIAWATHA'S WEDDING-FEAST.

You shall hear how Pau-Puk-Keewis,
How the handsome Yennadizze
Danced at Hiawatha's wedding;
How the gentle Chibiabos,
He the sweetest of musicians,
Sang his songs of love and longing;
How Iagoo, the great boaster,
He the marvellous storyteller,
Told his tales of strange adventure,
That the feast might be more joyous,
That the time might pass more gaily,
And the guests be more contented.

Sumptuous was the feast Nokomis
Made at Hiawatha's wedding.
All the bowls were made of bass-wood,
White and polished very smoothly,
All the spoons of horn of bison,
Black and polished very smoothly.

She had sent through all the village
Messengers with wands of willow,
As a sign of invitation,

As a token of the feasting;
And the wedding guests assembled,
Clad in all their richest raiment,
Robes of fur and belts of wampum,
Splendid with their paint and plumage,
Beautiful with beads and tassels.

First they ate the sturgeon, Nahma,
And the pike, the Maskenozha,
Caught and cooked by old Nokomis,
Then on pemican they feasted,
Pemican and buffalo marrow,
Haunch of deer and hump of bison,

Yellow cakes of the Mondamin,
And the wild rice of the river.

But the gracious Hiawatha,
And the lovely Laughing Water,
And the careful old Nokomis,
Tasted not the food before them,
Only waited on the others,

Only served their guests in silence.

And when all the guests had finished, Old Nokomis, brisk and busy, From an ample pouch of otter Filled the red stone pipes for smoking With tobacco from the South-land, Mixed with bark of the red willow, And with herbs and leaves of fragrance.

Then she said, "O Pau-Puk-Keewis, Dance for us your merry dances, Dance the Beggar's Dance to please us, That the feast may be more joyous, That the time may pass more gaily, And our guests be more contented!" H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THE BRIDAL DAY.

OPEN the temple-gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the posts adorn as doth behove,
And all the pillars deck with garlands trim,
For to receive this saint with honour due,
That cometh in to you.

With trembling steps and humble reverence
She cometh in before th' Almighty's view:
Of her, ye virgins! learn obedience,

When so ye come into these holy places,
To humble your proud faces.

Bring her up to th' high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endless matrimony make;
And let the roaring organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord, in lively notes,
The whiles with hollow throats

The choristers the joyous anthem sing,

That all the woods may answer, and their echo ring.

Behold whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speaks,
And blesses her with his two happy hands,
How red the roses flush up in her cheeks,
And the pure snow with goodly vermeil stain,
Like crimson dy'd ingrain,

That even the angels, which continually
About the sacred altar do remain,
Forget their service, and about her fly,

Oft peeping in her face, that seems more fair
The more they on it stare;

But her sad eyes, still fast'ned on the ground,
Are governed with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one look to glance awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsound.
Why blush ye, Love! to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band?

Sing, ye sweet angels! Alleluia sing,

That all the woods may answer, and your echo ring.

Now all is done: bring home the bride again,
Bring home the triumph of our victory :
Bring home with you the glory of her gain,
With joyance bring her, and with jollity.
Never had man more joyful day than this,
Whom Heaven would heap with bliss.

Make feast, therefore, now all this live-long day;
This day for ever to me holy is;

Pour out the wine without restraint or stay,
Pour not by cups, but by the belly-full:
Pour out to all that wull,

And sprinkle all the posts and walls with wine;
That they may sweat, and drunken be withal:
Crown ye god Bacchus with a coronal,

And Hymen also crown with wreaths of vine;

And let the Graces dance unto the rest,

For they can do it best ;

The whiles the maidens do their carol sing,

To which the woods shall answer, and their echo ring.

Now cease, ye damsels! your delights forepast,
Enough it is that all the day was yours;
Now day is done, and night is nighing fast,
Now bring the bride into the bridal bowers;
Now night is come, now soon her disarray,
And in her bed her lay;

Lay her in lilies and in violets,
And silken curtains over her display,
And odour'd sheets, and arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my fair love does lie,
In proud humility;

Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flow'ry grass,
'Twixt sleep and wake, after she weary was
With bathing in the Acidalian brook :
Now, it is night, ye damsels may be gone,
And leave my love alone,

And leave likewise your former lays to sing;
The woods no more shall answer, nor your echo ring.

EDMUND SPENSER. Epithalamion.

JACK'S WEDDIN'.

THE waves ha' got their coats o' white The winds are blowin' strong,

An' fill the canvas trim and tight,

An' drive the ship along. Then gather roun' the capstan, boys,

We'll sing the best we know,

The mermaids fair our song shall hear, An' Davy Jones below.

Let every man, then, fill his can,

An' drink a toast wi' me,

For jolly, jolly boys, jolly, jolly boys,
Jolly, jolly boys are we.

My gal she lives in Portsmouth town,
Her bright eyes shot me so,
She made me haul my colours down,
An' took me straight in tow.