"WASTING time!" time can't be wasted;

Time is neither strength nor treasure.

Where is 't? let me see 't

what! thát, time?

Why, it's growing, each moment, bigger,

PRETTY Moon, whom I so often

Sée pass smiling by, this way,
Stop a while and listen tó me
I've a word or two to say.

Don't you know the white-washed cabin
Ón the hill outside the town,
Where the girl whom I love bést, lives,
And they call her Bessie Brown?

Pretty Moon, next time you 're passing,
If it is not too late quite,

Take a peep in at the window,

Ánd bid Bessie Brown good night;

And if Bessie Brown should ask you
Do you know one Paddy Cleer,
Sáy it 's many a time you see him
Sitting where he 's sitting here;

Sitting on this stile, and playing

Ón his pipe, to keep care down,
For his heart is well nigh breaking,
Áll for love of Bessie Brown.

ROSAMOND, Oct. 23, 1859.

A TAP came to my bedroom door, one day,
As, in a fever, sick I lay, in bed,

Restless, desponding, every moment worse:

"Who's there? come in," said I, and Death came in, And shook his dart. I put a good face on 't,

But fairly own, I wished him out again.

Once, twice Death shook his dart, and the third time

Had raised, and was in the very act to strike,
When to the door another tap came sudden,

And breathless burst into the room the doctor,

And parried skilful, with gold-headed cane,

Death's thrust, and saved me - saved me, as I thought And grateful cried out, handing him his fee.

"That fee is mine," said Death, and clutched it fast, "Or should be mine my well-earned, just-due fee, For saving thee not now indeed, for now I'm baffled for the moment, but next time, And not far off 's next time for saving thee From sickness, pain and sorrow, and the doctor."

I stared; the doctor stared; upon his heel

Death turned about, and, muttering, stumped down stairs. ROSAMOND, April 30, 1859.

"THERE was a time the world admired

SIR JOHN MOORE'S BURIAL ODE,"
Said I once to a poet friend,

As side by side we rode,

The parsonage in view,

Where Wolfe had lived and loved and died,
Charles Wolfe, the kind and true.

"Ay, ay, there was a time," replied
Wolfe's poet friend and mine,
"The world agreed with you and me
To call that ode, divine.

"It was the time the world believed
Lord Byron wrote the ode.

Poor Wolfe!" He said, and wiped his eye;
I sighed; and on we rode.

ROSAMOND, Nov. 24, 1859.

THE CHAMOIS-HUNTER.

My father, chamois-hunting, fell and died;
His father, chamois-hunting, fell and died;
Í hunt the chamois and doubt not at all
Will, one day, chamois - hunting, fall and die:
Állons donc! chamois - hunting let me live,
And chamois-hunting, állons! I will die.

ROSAMOND, Sept. 10, 1859.

A RARE, scarce yet acclimatized exotic,
Bare in the morning, leafy at midday,

Only toward evening rich with flowers and fruit,
The poet loved it where it stood alone,
Neglected, at the bottom of the garden,
Scenting the air, and almost hid behind.
The gaudy, gay array of inodorous

Hollyhocks, sunflowers, paeonies and dahlias,

And, in his mournful hours, would linger néar it, Fanning it with his sighs, and with his tears

Watering

alas! 'twas his own type and image.

ROSAMOND, Jan. 10, 1860.