Upon the waves that rise and die
Along the banks of Severn's river,
Amidst the blue of broken sky,
I saw thy half-drawn image quiver
In changing gleams of golden light,
Now broadly spread, now vanished quite.
Late Golden Rod! in thought I deem
I still shall find thee swaying there,
As if some naiad of the stream
Gave to the wind her yellow hair,
Or, leaning o'er the margin, sought
The restless shape the waters wrought.
Though swaying, yet in quietude,
Thy beauty touched my very soul,
Like the calm eye of womanhood,
In stillness keeping all control.
And lo! as under sudden spell,
Thy presence shadowed all the dell.
The valley took October's crown,
I found thy glory still the same;
The sumach flung his red leaves down,
And lit his winter crest of flame;
The early elm and maple gave
Their burden to the patient wave.
I sought thee in the later year,
I sought, but found thee there no more;
Only a rigid stalk and sere
A withered head in silence bore,
Or swung, responsive to the sigh
Of the stray wind that passed it by.
Now Severn's banks in snow are still,
And Severn's stream is hushed and pale;
The sun shines on the whitened hill,
And glows like summer in the dale;
And yet I come, and half in gloom
And half in joy recall thy bloom.
Reader—do you want
SOMETHING NEW FOR DINNER?
It is not necessary to refer to a cook book to know what an excellent fish is the sheep's-head; you may find it in Noah Webster's large dictionary, where it is described as "the Sargus Ovis of Mitchell; esteemed delicious food"; or, you can find it in market.
Mr. Withers was married to a lovely young lady who once worked an entire piano cover with worsted. They had commenced housekeeping but a few months, when one morning the husband informed his wife that he should invite a friend to dine with him that day.
Mrs. Withers was in despair at this announcement, but she smiled and hid her grief; or at least her grief, in the shape of a Celtic cook, was at that time not to be seen, being employed in the kitchen, where she had invited two of her friends to "come in and ate."
Mr. Withers went down town; his wife then gave directions to the cook, Biddy O'Shaughshenny by name, to buy a sheep's-head, beef, game, and so forth.
'By the way, Bridget, have you ever cooked a sheep's-head before?'
'A shape's hid is it? Then I'm thinking, ma'am, I've cooked the likes of them minny a time and oft in the owld counthry when I bided with Mister Maginnis the grate counsillor in Dublin. I did.'