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I'LL SHARE IT NOT WITH NELLIE.

They say that thou art still engaged

Unto the lovely Nellie;
If this be so, thy love may go—

I'll share it not with Nellie.

They say thou'rt charmed with every maid,
And giv'st thy heart to many;

If this he true, to thee adieu—
I'll share it not with any.

If Nellie was thy premier love—
Thy truest—why thus leave her?

If I am thine—for ever thine—
Ah! why dost thou deceive her?

I did not use a wile to win

Thee from the lovely Nellie;
Thou gav'st, in fee, thy heart to me—

I'll share it not with Nellie.

THE LOVE-LETTER.

A Flutter in my room I heard,

Soft as descending dew, And on my table saw a bird

Perch with a billet-doux. I took it from its little bill,

And o'er it glanced mine eye, When thought, obedient to my will,

Did make her shuttle fly— The while the carrier-dove, aloof, Awaited for this woof.

"I've read thy lines with feelings higher

Than minstrel's art can tell— Thou'st breathed thy love in words of fire,

And sat in pearls of thought, ' Estelle'— Thou'st led me to the Oasis

In the desert of thy heart,
Where limpid streams of love and bliss,

From silent sources start—

And, with a chaste and reverent hand,
Engraved me in the sand.

"I bless thee for the iron faith

In man thy truth has taught me— The flowers thou'st flung upon my path—

The feasts of song thou'st brought me; Thy sympathy, unschooled by art,—

The friendship thou hast proved; It is the great need of my heart

To love—and be beloved."— Here, white-winged herald, with this note, Back to thy master float!

LINES ON BEING ASKED FOR MY AUTOGRAPH.

I Wish I had a pretty name,

Whose beauty was its only fame,

A sea of secret joy I'd quaff

In sending forth my autograph.

When erst I roamed with May and Ellie,

They used to call me little Stellie,

To which, elate with love and hope,

I bounded like the antelope;

But, when I grew too large to play,

And gave the world a tender lay,

They put an E before the S,

And made Estelle—I wish 'twere Bess.

And then I had another name,

Which now I hardly care to claim—'

'Twas Blanche—of old Castilian fame.

TO A LAWYER WHO WAS NOT AT MY
SOIREE ACCORDING TO PROMISE.

0 Dear Mr. Dyett!
What a load must He at

The door of your heart I
Its angeto a-stare
At the stack of fibs there,

I'm afraid will depart,
And placard the door,
That others may soar

On their heavenly way.
When we parted last night,
With our hearts leaping light

As the white-footed spray,
With a tip of your ha£,
You swore you'd be at

My little soiree.
But 'mong poets of fame,
And singers who came,

And limbs of the Law,

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