What should a maiden be?  She should be loath
  Lightly to give or receive loving troth;
  But when her faith is once plighted, till breath
  Leave her, her love should be stronger than death.

  What should a maiden be?  Merry, whene’er
  Merriment comes with a natural air;
  But let not mirth be an every-day guest,
  Quietness sits on a maiden the best.

  Like a fair lily, sequestered and meek,
  She should be sought for, not others should seek;
  But, when the wild winds of trouble arise,
  She should be calm and courageous and wise,

  What should her words be?  Her words should be few,
  Honest and genuine, tender and true;
  Words that overflow from a pure heart within,
  Guiltless of folly, untainted by sin.

  What should her dress be?  Not gaudy and vain,
  But unaffectedly pretty and plain;
  She should remember these few simple words—­
  “Fine feathers flourish on foolish young birds.”

  Where should a maiden be?  Home is the place
  Which a fair maid is most fitted to grace;
  There should she turn, like a bird to the nest,
  There should a maiden be, blessing and blest.

  There should she dwell as the handmaid of God,
  And if He bid her ‘pass under the rod,’
  Let her each murmur repining suppress,
  Knowing He chasteneth that He may bless.

  But if earth’s blessings each day He renew,
  Let her give glory where glory is due;
  Deem every blessing a gift from above,
  Given, and designed for a purpose of love,

  What will her future be?  If she become
  Matron and mother, may God bless her home! 
  God to the matron all blessings will give,
  If as God’s maiden the young maiden live.

  What will her future be?  If she should die,
  Lightly the earth on her ashes will lie;
  Softly her body will sleep ’neath the sod,
  While her pure spirit is safe with her God.

TURGIDUS ALPINUS.

  My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-year
  To lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear;
  Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogs
  Imbibe incessant whisky, and inhale incessant fogs: 
  Ye know not with what transports the mad Alpine Clubman gushes,
  When with rope and axe and knapsack to the realms of snow he rushes. 
  O can I e’er the hour forget—­a voice within cries “Never!”—­
  From British beef and sherry dear which my young heart did sever? 
  My limbs were cased in flannel light, my frame in Norfolk jacket,
  As jauntily I stepped upon the impatient Calais packet. 
  “Dark lowered the tempest overhead,” the waters wildly rolled,
  Wildly the moon sailed thro’ the clouds, “and it grew wondrous cold;”
  The good ship cleft the darkness, like an iron wedge, I trow,
  As the steward whispered kindly, “you