King George long since has passed away,
And minuets have had their day.
Within a hidden attic nook
Covered with dust, her music-book.
Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.
The bunch of roses at her breast.
But still, unmindful of time's flight,
With face so fair and hands so white,
Clarissa plays.
EDWARD B. REED.
_Yale Literary Magazine._
~Tildy in the Choir.~
Lines that ripple, notes that dance,
Foreign measures brought from France,
Reaching with a careless ease
From high C to--where you please,
Clever, frivolous, and gay--
These will answer in their way;
But that tune of long ago--
Stately, solemn, somewhat slow
(Dear "Old Hundred"--that's the air)--
Will outrank them anywhere;
Once it breathed a seraph's fire.
(Tildy sang it in the choir.)
How she stood up straight and tall!
Ah! again I see it all;
Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,
Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed
All the genial country's wealth
Of large cheer and perfect health,
Gown--well, yes--old-fashioned quite,
_You_ would call it "just a fright,"
But I love that quaint attire.
(Tildy wore it in the choir.)
How we sang--for _I_ was there,
Occupied a singer's chair
Next to--well, no prouder man
Ever lifts the bass, nor can,
Sometimes held the self-same book,
(How my nervous fingers shook!)
Sometimes--wretch--while still the air
Echoed to the parson's prayer,
I would whisper in her ear
What she could not help but hear.
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