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FROM THE FRENCH

OF ALFRED DE MUSSET.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

WHEN Hope, that sad coquette, our shoulder

Taps as she dances by,

Then darts away before we hold her,

And turns with laughing eye;

Where goes man? Why, his heart he'll follow

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As swallows race the wind,

For heavier is the wing of swallow

Than he who does his mind.

Ah Hope! You flirt, you giddy jade,

I don't believe you know your way!

'T is strange that Fate, who's old and gray,

Should love and serve so young a maid!

E. C. P.

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