Fashion -- 19th century -- Periodicals; United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Periodicals; Women's periodicals, American
Fore'er in life my only solace stay.
Baseless and unsubstantial promise given,
In that unmeaning "morrow" ne'er to rise!
THE EMBROIDERED SLIPPERS.
AN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF A HOLIDAY GIFT.
If a pen full of ink will my feelings portray,
Accept my best thanks for those slippers, I pray;
I prize them sincerely; they suit to a T;
And no trifle, dear madam, shall wrest them from me.
Should the sons of St. Crispin their workshops give o'er,
And the cobblers declare they will cobble no more,
What _boots_ it to me if they throw down their _awl_
And come to an _end_, and the craft wholly fall?
Possessing such friends, with those banners unfurled,
No fear of my going barefoot through the world.
'Tis said Cinderella, a well-meaning lass,
Was raised to great wealth by a shoe made of glass;
Now if one single slipper such wonders will do,
How fortunate those who are favored with two!
Still some have their doubts, and hesitate whether
One slipper of glass is worth two made of leather.
The man who is upright (they may think as they choose),
That _person's_ full weight must rest in his shoes;
Be lowly his station, or high and commanding,
Two slippers secure him a firm understanding.
OLD, WHILE YOUNG.
BY MABEL CLIFFORD.
I asked a friend why she was so sad? Her reply was,
"Sorrow hath made me old, while young."
You ask me why I am so strangely tearful,
Why clouds of anguish o'er my brow are flung?
You strive and pray to make me gay and cheerful,
And wonder how I can be sad while young.
Yes, I am young in years, but not in feeling,
For many frosts upon my bosom lie,
And sorrow's mantle o'er my spirit stealing,
Wrapped _age_ within, and cast _youth_ idly by.
I may be young, but, with my blighted spirit,
My clouded heart, and weary head and brain,
I feel, I know I never can inherit
A careless brow, and cheerful mien again.
Then do not scorn me that I have not power
To show a brow where shadows may not come,
For, were your heart like mine, a blighted flower,
You would not wonder I feel old, while young.
PRESENTIMENT.
BY MRS. PRISCILLA P. LOMPAYRAC.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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