THREE KISSES OF FAREWELL.

FROM ONE OF "ESTHER WYNN'S LOVE - LETTERS," BY THE ANONYMOUS AUTHOR OF THE SAXE-HOLM STORIES (1873).

Three, only three, my darling,

Separate, solemn, slow:

Not like the swift and joyous ones

We used to know,-

When we kissed because we loved each other,

Simply to taste love's sweet,

And lavished our kisses as the summer

Lavishes heat,

But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung,

When hope and fear are spent,

And nothing is left to give, except

A sacrament!

First of the three, my darling,

Is sacred unto pain:

We have hurt each other often,

We shall again,—

When we pine because we miss each other, And do not understand

How the written words are so much colder

Than eye and hand.

I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain Which we may give or take;Buried-forgiven before it comes, For our love's sake!

The second kiss, my darling,

Is full of joy's sweet thrill; We have blessed each other always;

We always will.

We shall reach until we feel each other, Past all of time and space.

We shall listen till we hear each other In every place.

The earth is full of messengers

Which love sends to and fro.

I kiss thee, darling, for all the joy
Which we shall know.

The last kiss, oh, my darling,

My love I cannot see

Through my tears, as I remember

What it may be.

We may die and never see each other,

Die with no time to give

Any sign that our hearts are faithful

To die as live.

Token of what they will not see

Who see our parting breath:

This one last kiss, my darling, seals The seal of death!

THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION.

In Cassell's "Illustrated Readings," edited by Tom Hood, the younger (1835-1875), this amusing song is credited to Wil liam Pitt, who was master attendant at Jamaica Dock-yard, and afterward at Malta, where he died in 1840. It is credited in many collections to Charles Dibdin; an error arising probably from the fact that Dibdin wrote a song under the same title, and commencing

"Spanking Jack was so comely, so pleasant, so jolly,

Though winds blew great guns still he'd whistle and sing: Jack loved his friend, and was true to his Molly, And, if honor gives greatness, was great as a king." This song was set to music, and published by Novello & Co., London. Pitt's song (a much better one) was also set to music, and published by Purday & Son, London.

One night came on a hurricane,

The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turned his quid, And said to Billy Bowling

"A strong nor'-wester's blowing, BillyHark! don't ye hear it roar now? Lord help 'em! how I pities all Unhappy folks on shore now!

"Foolhardy chaps who live in town-
What danger they are all in!
And now are quaking in their beds,
For fear the roof should fall in.
Poor creatures! how they envies us,
And wishes, I've a notion,

For our good luck, in such a storm,
To be upon the ocean.

"But as for them who're out all day,
On business from their houses,
And late at night are coming home,
To cheer the babes and spouses,
While you and I, Bill, on the deck
Are comfortably lying-

My eyes! what tiles and chimney-pots
About their heads are flying!

"And very often have we heard How men are killed and undone

By overturns of carriages,

By thieves and fires in London. We know what risks all landsmen run,

From noblemen to tailors;

Then, Bill, let us thank Providence

That you and I are sailors!"

Griev'st thou that hearts should change?

Lo! where life reigneth, Or the free sight doth range,

What long remaineth?

Spring with her flowers doth die;
Fast fades the gilded sky;
And the full-moon on high
Ceaselessly waueth.

Smile, then, ye sage and wise!

And if love sever

Bonds which thy soul doth prize, Such does it ever!

Deep as the rolling seas,

Soft as the twilight breeze,-
And yet of more than these

Boast could it never!

Oh, think! the darlings of thy love,
Divested of this earthly clod,
Amid unnumbered saints, above,

Bask in the bosom of their God.

O'er thee, with looks of love, they bend;
For thee the Lord of life implore;
And oft from sainted bliss descend
Thy wounded spirit to restore.
Then dry, henceforth, the bitter tear;
Their part and thine inverted see:
Thou wert their guardian angel here,
They guardian angels now to thee!

TO A BEREAVED MOTHER.

John Quincy Adams, son of the second President of the United States, and himself President for one term, published, in 1832, a long composition in verse, entitled "Dermot MacMorrogh." The following tender little lyric from his pen will probably outlast all his other poetical productions. Adams died in the Capitol at Washington, February 23d, 1848. His last words were, "This is the last of earth!" He was born in Braintree, Mass., July 11th, 1767.

Sure, to the mansions of the blessed
When infant innocence ascends,
Some angel, brighter than the rest,
The spotless spirit's flight attends.
On wings of ecstasy they rise,

Beyond where worlds material roll,
Till some fair sister of the skies
Receives the unpolluted soul.
That inextinguishable beam,

With dust united at our birth,
Sheds a more dim, discolored gleam
The more it lingers upon earth.

But when the Lord of mortal breath
Decrees his bounty to resume,
And points the silent shaft of death

Which speeds an infant to the tomb,
No passion fierce, nor low desire

Has quenched the radiance of the flame; Back to its God the living fire

Reverts, unclouded as it came.
Fond mourner, be that solace thine!
Let Hope her healing charm impart,

And soothe, with melodies divine,
The anguish of a mother's heart.

AGAIN.

ANONYMOUS (British-19th Century).

O sweet and fair! O rich and rare!
That day so long ago;

The autumn sunshine everywhere,
The heather all aglow!

The ferns were clad in cloth of gold,
The waves sang on the shore:
Such suns will shine, such waves will sing,
Forever, evermore.

O fit and few! O tried and true!
The friends who met that day;
Each one the other's spirit knew;
And so, in earnest play,

The hours flew past, until at last

The twilight kissed the shore. We said, "Such days shall come again Forever, evermore."

One day again, no cloud of pain

A shadow o'er us cast;
And yet we strove in vain, in vain,

To conjure up the past.

Like, but unlike, the sun that shone,
The waves that beat the shore,
The words we said, the songs we sung-
Like, unlike,- -evermore.

For ghosts unseen crept in between,
And, when our songs flowed free,
Sang discords in an undertone,

And marred our harmony.

"The past is ours, not yours," they said; "The waves that beat the shore, Though like the same, are not the same, O never, never more!"

Bright things can never die,
Even though they fade;
Beauty and minstrelsy

Deathless were made.
What though the summer day
Passes at eve away?

Doth not the moon's soft ray

Solace the night?
Bright things can never die,
Saith my philosophy:
Phoebus, while passing by,
Leaves us the light.

Kind words can never die :
Cherished and blessed,
God knows how deep they lie
Stored in the breast!
Like childhood's simple rhymes,
Said o'er a thousand times,
Ay, in all years and climes,

PROGRESS.

ANONYMOUS (BRITISH-19TH Century).

All victory is struggle, using chance
And genius well; all bloom is fruit of death!
All being, effort for a future germ;

All good, just sacrifice; and life's success
Is rounded-up of integers of thrift,
From toil and self-denial. Man must strive
If he would freely breathe or conquer: slaves
Are amorous of ease and dalliance soft;
Who rules himself calls no man master, aud
Commands success even in the throat of Fate.
Creation's soul is thrivance from decay;
And nature feeds on ruin; the big earth
Summers in rot, and harvests through the frost,
To fructify the world; the mortal Now
Is pregnant with the spring-flowers of To-come;
And death is seed-time of Eternity.