With face so fair and hands so white,
Clarissa plays.

EDWARD B. REED.
_Yale Literary Magazine._


~Tildy in the Choir.~

Lines that ripple, notes that dance,
Foreign measures brought from France,
Reaching with a careless ease
From high C to--where you please,
Clever, frivolous, and gay--
These will answer in their way;
But that tune of long ago--
Stately, solemn, somewhat slow
(Dear "Old Hundred"--that's the air)--
Will outrank them anywhere;
Once it breathed a seraph's fire.
(Tildy sang it in the choir.)

How she stood up straight and tall!
Ah! again I see it all;
Cheeks that glowed and eyes that laughed,
Teeth like cream, and lips that quaffed
All the genial country's wealth
Of large cheer and perfect health,
Gown--well, yes--old-fashioned quite,
_You_ would call it "just a fright,"