oughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.

I would my Love were not so fair
(I mean it when I breathe it):
What though each hair be golden hair,
If temper ill dwells 'neath it?
Her lips would make the red rose blush,
Her voice trolls graceful phrases,
Her brow is calm as Evening's hush,
Her teeth as white as daises.
Her cheeks are fresh as infant Day's,
Round which cling Beauty's traces:
But wayward thoughts and wayward ways
Make far from pretty faces.

DEATH IN LIFE:

A TRUE STORY.

The following simple narrative is founded on fact. A young village
couple married, and soon after their marriage went to live in London.
Success did not follow the honest-hearted husband in his search for
employment, and he and his young wife were reduced to actual want. In
their wretchedness a child was born to them, which died in the midst of
the desolate circumstances by which the young mother was surrounded.
For three years the mother was deprived of reason--a gloomy period of
Death in Life--and passionately mourned the loss of her first-born. An
eminent London practitioner, to whom her case became known, was of
opinion that reason would return should a second child be born to the
disconsolate mother. This proved to be correct; and after three years
of mental aberration the sufferer woke as from a dream. For many
months after the awakening she was under the impression that her second
child was her first-born, and only became aware of the true state of
the case when it was gently broken to her by her husband.

I.

Lovely as a sunbright Spring is,
Yonder trembling maid advances,
Clothed in beauty like the morning--
Like the silver-misted morning--
With a face of shiny radiance,
Tinted with a tinge of blushes,
Like reflections from a goblet
Filled with wine of richest ruby.

Now she nears the low church portal--
Flickers through the white-washed portal,
Lighting up the sleepy structure,
As a sunbeam lights the drowsy
Blossom into wakeful gladness.
See! she stands before the altar,
With the chosen one beside her;
And the holy Mentor murmurs
Words that link their lives like rivets,
Which no force should break asunder.
Now the simple prayer is ended;
And two souls, like kissing shadows,
Mingle so no hand shall part them!
Mingle like sweet-chorded music;
Mingle like the sighs of Summer--
Like the breat