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THE TOAST.

THE feast is o'er. Now brimming wine
In lordly cup is seen to shine
Before each eager guest!

And silence fills the crowded hall,
As deep as when the herald's call
Thrills in the loyal breast.

Then up arose the noble host,

And smiling, cried, "A toast! a toast!

To all our ladies fair

Here, before all, I pledge the name
Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame
The Ladye Gundamere!"

Then to his feet each gallant sprung,
And joyous was the shout that rung
As Stanley gave the word;

And every cup was raised on high,
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry,
Till Stanley's voice was heard.

"Enough, enough!" he smiling said. And lowly bent his haughty head; "That all may have their due, Now each in turn must play his part And pledge the ladye of his heart,

Like gallant knight and true!"

Then one by one each guest sprung up
And drained in turn the brimming cup,

And named the loved one's name;
And each, as hand he raised,
His lady's grace or beauty praised,
Her constancy and fame.

"Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise;
On him is fixed those countless eyes-
A gallant knight is he:

Envied by some, admired by all,
Far famed in ladye's bower and hall, -
The flower of chivalry!

St. Leon raised his kindling eye,
And lifts the sparkling cup on high:
"I drink to ONE," he said,
"Whose image never may depart,
Deep graven on this grateful heart,
Till memory be dead.

"To one whose love for me shall last When lighter passions long have past, So holy 'tis, and true;

To one whose love has longer dwelt,
More deeply fixed, more keenly felt,
Than any pledged by you."

Each guest upstarted at the word,
And laid a hand upon his sword,
With fury-flashing eye;

And Stanley said, "We crave the name,
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame,
Whose love you count so high."

St. Leon paused, as if he would
Not breathe her name in careless mood
Thus lightly to another:

Then bent his noble head, as though
To give that word the reverence due,
And gently said, "MY MOTHER!"

TO MY MOTHER.

My Mother! many a burning word Would not suffice the love to tell With which my inmost soul is stirred, As thoughts of thee my bosom swell! But better I should ill express

The passion thus, than leave untold The glow of filial tenderness

Which never in my heart grows cold.

Oft, as I muse o'er all the wrong,
The silent grief, the secret pain
My froward youth has caused, I long
To live my childhood o'er again.
And yet they were not all in vain,

The lessons which thy love then taught;
Nor always hath it dormant lain,
The fire from thy example caught,

And now, as feelings all divine

With deepest power my spirit touch,
I feel as if some prayer of thine,
My Mother! were availing much.
And thus availing, more and more,
O, be it thine in bliss to see

The hopes with which thy heart runs o'er
In fondest hour, fulfilled in me!

Rev. Wm. Croswell, D. D.

TO MY WIFE.

"My bride,

My wife, my life, O we will walk this world

Yoked in all exercise of noble aim,

And so through these dark gates across the wild That no man knows."

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay,
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

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