“LOVE
IN
A
COTTAGE.”
lingered in their clear depths; for, as her busband told her, “she made a very respectable-looking bride.”
And what about me?
Oh, dear! I had nearly forgotten myself. Frank says I always do, and he says, too, that “the day his little ‘butterfly’ first lighted in their home was the most blessed day in his life.”
“LOVE IN A COTTAGE.”
BY MISS MARY A. LATHBURY.
There’s a cottage down in the valley,
A cottage of gleaming white,
Shaded by spreading beeches,
And almost hidden from sight
By climbing roses and woodbine,
Shading the cottage door,
And casting a. shimmering shadow
Down on the cottage floor—
Shading the milk-white roses
And the brow of the maid Lenore.
Not for the spreading beeches—
Not for the swinging vine—
Not for the white-hearted roses,
Or the shade of the dark woodbine:
Do I turn me toward the cottage
With a longing, wistful eye;
Or bound along the pathway,
Where the beech tree boughs wave high;
But I watch for the gleam of a white hand
From a latticed window nigh.
’Tis not at the pretty cottage
That I gaze, as I pass it by;
But at the half-opened casement,
For the flash of a maiden's eye.
Oh! it is a charming ideal
Of a novelist’s “love in a cot;”
And I’m certain the little god dwells there,
And his throne is a maiden's heart;
The heart of a dark-eyed maiden,
Oh! his is a happy lot.
THE OLD BROWN COT
BY EDWARD A. DARBY.
Among the scenes to memory dear
To which my fancy oi‘t returns,
And for whose long lost days of joy
My spirit in its sadness yearns;
There’s none that seems so dear to me
As that where passed life’s early morn,
There's none for which I sigh so oft
As for the cot where I was born.
CHORUS.
The old brown cot, the low brown cot,
The mom-grown cot beneath the hill:
Though years have passed since I was there
I love it, oh, I love it still!
It stood beside the running brook
Whose waters turned the noisy mill,
And close beneath the tall old oaks
That nodded on the sloping hill.
The woodbine creeping o’er the walls,
The sunshine on the grassy plot,
How beautiful were they to me
When home was in that old brown cot!
Though I may view the fairest lands
On which the sun in glory beams,
And dwell in climes more beautiful
Than poets visit in their dreams:
Still will afl’ection linger round
That loved and consecrated spot,
And tears will fall as I go back
To boyhood and the old brown cot.
GOING HOME.
BY
CLARA AUGUSTA.
Burdened with stately lilacs—shaded by ancient trees—
Filled with the richest music swept from the tender breeze;
Oh! how I think of the evenings spent in the happy talk:
Wandering with beautiful Mary down o’er the garden walk.
Now the wild billows toss me far on the lonesome sea—
Oh! the strong wind, through the cordage, rattles and {relies
in the!
Think of the rose-shaded garden, where lies the sunshine of June—
Where the bees sing in the rye-field, n1 oTtBe bright after
noon;
Mary sits, quietly knitting. on the piazza so cool;
The kitten, with paws like white velvet, toys with a mgltive
spool.
roam
Of the sweet, shady path in the garden, and deal- little Mary
at home.
