45. LADY.--The old _study-corner_ by a nook, Crowded with volumes of the old romance. N. P. WILLIS. 46. Ay, 'tis to you a glorious sight To gaze on _ocean's_ ample face; An awful joy, a deep delight, To see his laughing waves embrace Each other, in their frolic race. GEORGE LUNT. 47. You love the _pictures_ that you see At times in some _old gallery_; You love them, although art may deem Such pictures of but light esteem. MARY HOWITT. 48. GENTLEMAN.-- A brown cigar, A special, smooth-skinn'd, real Havanna. MOTHERWELL. 48. LADY.--Your quiet, pleasant _chamber_, with the rose-vine Woven round the casement. MISS MITFORD. 49. _Old books_ to read! Ay, bring those nodes of wit, The brazen-clasp'd, the vellum writ, Time-honor'd tomes. HENRY CAREY. 50. A _youthful mother_ to her infant smiling, Who with spread arms, and dancing feet, And cooing voice, returns an answer sweet. JOANNA BAILLIE. 51. GENTLEMAN.--To be toss'd on the waves alone, or mid the crew Of joyous comrades, now the reedy marge Clearing, with strenuous arm dipping the oar. WORDSWORTH. 51. LADY.--When the sail is slack, the course is slow, That at your leisure, as you coast along, You may contemplate, and from every scene Receive its influence. ROGERS. 52. An antique _chair_, Cushion'd with cunning luxury. N. P. WILLIS. 53. You love a hand that meets your own With grasp that causes some sensation; You love a voice whose varying tone From truth has learn'd its modulation. MRS. OSGOOD. 54. When each and all come crowding round to share A cordial greeting, the beloved sight; When welcomings of hand and lip are there, And when these overflowings of delight Subside into a sense of quiet bliss, Life hath no purer, deeper happiness. SOUTHEY. 55. Oh yes, the poor man's garden! It is great joy to thee, This little, precious piece of ground, Beside his door to see. For in the poor man's garden grow Far more than herbs and flowers, Kind thoughts, contentment, peace of mind, And joy for weary hours. MARY HOWITT. 56. To be sad, and say nothing. _As You Like It._ 57. Sweet _poetry_, the alchymy Which turneth all it toucheth into gold. MRS. DANA.