It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,

Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be,
'Ere one can say-It lightens. Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night!-as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast!

Rom. Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
Rom. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
Jul. I gave thee mine, before thou didst request it:

And yet I would it were to give again.

Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love? Jul. But to be frank, and give it thee again.

My bounty is as boundless as the sea,

My love as deep; the more I give to thee,

The more I have; for both are infinite,

I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!

Nurse. [Within.] Madam!

Jul. Anon, good Nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay but a little, I will come again.

[Exit from balcony.]

Rom. Oh! blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,

Being in night, all this is but a dream,

Too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Re-enter JULIET, above.

Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night, indeed

If that thy bent of love be honorable,

Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,

By one that I'll procure to come to thee,

Where, and what time, thou wilt perform the rite;

And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay ;

And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.

Nurse [Within.] Madam!

Jul. I come anon! But, if thou mean'st not well, I do beseech thee

Nurse. [Within.] Madam!

Jul. By and by, I come!

To cease thy suit, and leave me to my grief.

To-morrow will I send.

Rom. So thrive my soul

Jul. A thousand times good night!

Rom, A thousand times the worse, to want thy light. [Exit.]

Re-enter Juliet.

Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! Oh, for a falconer's voice,

To lure this tassel gentle back again!

Bondage is hoarse, and may not speak aloud;

Else would he fear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine,
With repetition of my Romeo's name.

ROMEO entering.

Rom. It is my love that calls upon my name! How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears!

Jul. Romeo!

Rom. My sweet!

Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow

Shall I send to thee?

Rom. At the hour of nine.

Jul. I will not fail: 'tis twenty years till then.

I have forgot why I did call thee back.

Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring how I love thy company.

Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this.

Jul. 'Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone And yet no further than a wanton's bird;

Who lets it hop a little from her hand,

And with a silk thread plucks it back again,

So loving-jealous of its liberty.

Rom. I would I were thy bird.

Jul. Sweet, so would I!

Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow

That I shall say- Good night, 'till it be morrow.

[Exit from baleny.

Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell;

His help to crave, and my dear hap to tell.

Jack Horner.

"Little Jack Horner sat in a corner,

Eating a Christmas pie;

He put in his thumb

And pulled out a plum,

And said, 'What a great boy am I.'”

Ah! the world has many a Horner,
Who, seated in his corner,

Finds a Christmas pie provided for his thumb,
And cries out with exultation,

When successful exploration

Doth discover the predestined plum.

Little Jack outgrows his tire,
And becometh John, Esquire,

And he finds a monstrous pastry ready-made,
Stuffed with notes and bonds and bales,

With invoices and sales,

And all the mixed ingredients of trade.

And again it is his luck,

To be just in time to pluck,

By a "clever operation," from the pie

An unexpected plum;

So he glorifies his thumb,

And says, proudly, "What a mighty man am I."

Or, perchance, to science turning,

And, with weary labor, learning
All the formulas that oppress her,
For the fruit of others baking,
So a fresh diploma taking,

Comes he forth a full accredited professor.

Or he's not too nice to mix

In the dish of politics;

And the dignity of office he puts on;

And feels as big again

As a dozen nobler men,

While he writes himself the "Honorable John."

Not to hint at female Horners,

Who, in their exclusive corners,

Think the world is only made of upper crust,

And in the funny pie

That we call society,

Their dainty fingers delicately thrust.

Till it sometimes comes to pass,
In the spiced and sugared mass;

One may compass (don't they call it so?) a catch;
And the gratulation given,

Seems as if the very heaven

Had outdone itself in making such a match.

Oh, the world keeps Christmas day

In a queer perpetual way;

Shouting always, "What a great, big boy am I!"

Yet how many of the crowd,

Thus vociferating loud,

And all its accidental honors lifting high,

Have really more than Jack,

With all their lucky knack,

Had a finger in the making of the pie.

Mother Goose for Grown People

Barbara Frietchie.

Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,

Apple and peach-trees fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord,

To the eyes of the famished Rebel horde.

On that pleasant day of the early fall,
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot into Frederick town,
Forty flags with the silvery stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind; the sun
Of noon looked down and saw not one.

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten,
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down.
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the Rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.

Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced; the old flag met his sight.
"Halt!"-the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
"Fire !"-out blazed the rifle blast;
It shivered the window, pane, and sash,
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell from the broken staff,
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will

"Shoot, if you must, this gray old head,
But spare your country's flag," she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The noble nature within him stirred
To life at Barbara's deed and word: