A VALENTINE.

SHE that is fair, though never vain or proud,
More fond of home than fashion's changing crowd;
Whose taste refined even female friends admire,
Dressed not for show, but robed in neat attire ;
She who has learned, with mild, forgiving breast,
To pardon frailties, hidden or confest;

True to herself, yet willing to submit,

More swayed by love, than ruled by worldly wit;
Though young, discreet,—though ready, ne'er unkind,
Blessed with no pedant's, but a Woman's mind;
She wins our hearts, towards her our thoughts incline,

So at her door go leave my Valentine.

COMMON SENSE.

SHE came among the gathering crowd,
A maiden fair, without pretence,

And when they asked her humble name,
She whispered mildly, "Common Sense."

Her modest garb drew every eye,

Her ample cloak, her shoes of leather, And when they sneered, she simply said, "I dress according to the weather."

They argued long, and reasoned loud,
In dubious Hindoo phrase mysterious,
While she, poor child, could not divine

Why girls so young should be so serious.

COMMON SENSE.

They knew the length of Plato's beard,
And how the scholars wrote in Saturn;
She studied authors not so deep,

And took the Bible for her pattern.

And so she said, “Excuse me, friends,
I find all have their proper places,
And Common Sense should stay at home

With cheerful hearts and smiling faces.”

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THE DEAD.

"Still the same, no charm forgot,

Nothing lost that Time had given."

FORGET not the Dead, who have loved, who have left us, Who bend o'er us now, from their bright homes above; But believe,― never doubt,—that the God who bereft us Permits them to mingle with friends they still love.

Repeat their fond words, all their noble deeds cherish, Speak pleasantly of them who left us in tears; Other joys may be lost, but their names should not perish

While time bears our feet through the valley of years.

THE DEAD.

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Dear friends of our youth! can we cease to remember The last look of life, and the low-whispered prayer?

O, cold be our hearts as the ice of December

When Love's tablets record no remembrances there.

Then forget not the Dead, who are evermore nigh us, Still floating sometimes to our dream-haunted bed;In the loneliest hour, in the crowd, they are by us;

Forget not the Dead! oh, forget not the Dead!