Pleasures in the paltry host— Starveling muse’s meager ghost Dribbling song in purblind flow— Poesy has sunk so low. I would see beside the rill Decked with Lawn and Daffodil Sweetly thro’ the morning air— Corinna going to the fair! I would hear the birds and bees Sung of in Hesperides; Would that I were with you there, Drunken with the dewy air. And Julia, paragon of grace, I would look upon her face; Then might I inspired be, Fit to join thy company. Ah! Herrick, softly on thy mound I would still bestrew the ground— Daffodil and rosemary Tokens for thy memory. EUGENE R. WHITE. A THRIFTLESS BENEFIT. He was a man of humble dress and humble mien, and when he entered the parlor of the rich manufacturer he was obviously dazed by the upholstery and the pictures—especially the upholstery. He had to wait ten minutes before the lord of the mansion appeared—a pompous man with an expanse of shirt, waistcoat and watchchain that were imposing, and a couple of whiskers that bristled in uncompromising pride. He looked at the meek figure seated on the edge of the least expensive chair, with a slight expression of scorn and irritation, and grunted, “Well, sir?” “You must excuse me for coming,” said the diffident one, “but I wish to speak to you on a matter that is of the most vital importance to yourself.” “What! Are the hands going to strike again? D—n them!” “Oh, sir, please do not use such language. I have recently been discouraged from using it myself, and it does hurt my feelings so! I beg that you will not employ those terms, at least, in my presence.” “What in the devil”—— “There you are again, sir, if you please. Don’t, I beg of you.” “Well, go on.” The visitor sank his voice to a thrilling undertone: “I am told that you have wine on your table.” “Of course I have. What of it?” “Beware of it, sir. There is death in the glass.” “Those infernal, beg your pardon, mill hands, I’ll bet.” “No, sir, not that. It is the wine itself. Keep to water. It isn’t very good just now, but you can filter it, or use it for tea.” “Bah!” “Oh, do not bah at it, sir. I’m pleading for your good. Again, I am informed that you smoke. Stop it, please, at once.” “What! Even my cigars poisoned? This is horrible.” “Tobacco is itself a poison, sir. Again, you were not at church last Sunday. Nor at prayer meeting on Friday night. I am told that you made no contribution last month for foreign missions. I am credibly informed that you have had no Bible readings in your house for years. There is a rumor that you belong to a club, and that you once played poker there.” The millionaire, who had been growing crimson, now turned purple; his waistcoat inflated, his whiskers were like quills on the porcupine. He glared and sputtered, but could find no words.