RINGS AND SEALS. THOMAS MOORE.

"Go!" said the angry weeping maid, "The charm is broken!—once betray'd, Oh! never can my heart rely On word or look, on oath or sigh. Take back the gifts, so sweetly given, With promis'd faith and vows to heaven; That little ring, which, night and morn, With wedded truth my hand hath worn; That seal which oft, in moments blest, Thou hast upon my lip imprest, And sworn its dewy spring should be A fountain seal'd for only thee! Take, take them back, the gift and vow, All sullied, lost, and hateful, now!"

I took the ring—the seal I took, While oh! her every tear and look Were such as angels look and shed, When man is by the world misled! Gently I whisper'd, "FANNY, dear! Not half thy lover's gifts are here: Say, where are all the seals he gave To every ringlet's jetty wave, And where is every one he printed Upon that lip, so ruby-tinted— Seals of the purest gem of bliss, Oh! richer, softer, far than this!

"And then the ring—my love! recall How many rings, delicious all, His arms around that neck hath twisted, Twining warmer far than this did! Where are they all, so sweet, so many? Oh! dearest, give back all, if any!"

While thus I murmur'd, trembling too Lest all the nymph had vow'd was true, I saw a smile relenting rise 'Mid the moist azure of her eyes. Like day-light o'er a sea of blue, While yet the air is dim with dew! She let her cheek repose on mine, She let my arms around her twine— Oh! who can tell the bliss one feels In thus exchanging rings and seals!

NETS AND CAGES. THOMAS MOORE.

Come, listen to my story, while Your needle's task you ply; At what I sing some maids will smile, While some, perhaps, may sigh. Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames Such florid songs as ours, Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames, Can speak her thoughts by flowers. Then listen, maids, come listen, while Your needle's task you ply; At what I sing there's some may smile, While some, perhaps, will sigh. Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves, Such nets had learn'd to frame, That none, in all our vales and groves, Ere caught so much small game: While gentle Sue, less given to roam, When Cloe's nets were taking These flights of birds, sat still at home, One small, neat Love-cage making. Come, listen, maids, etc.

Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task; But mark how things went on: These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask Their name and age, were gone! So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove, That, though she charm'd into them New game each hour, the youngest Love Was able to break through them. Come, listen, maids, etc.

Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought Of bars too strong to sever, One love with golden pinions caught, And caged him there forever; Instructing thereby, all coquettes, Whate'er their looks or ages, That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets, 'Tis wiser to make Cages. Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile The task your fingers ply— May all who hear, like Susan smile, Ah! not like Cloe sigh!

SALAD. SYDNEY SMITH.

To make this condiment, your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half-suspected, animate the whole. Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault, To add a double quantity of salt. And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl! Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!