But, theoretically, the articles in
our periodical literature are anonymous; and, practically, they stand on
their intrinsic merits. And it is out of the question that a system which
offers a money premium for the worst fault in periodical writing--to wit,
prolixity--should not deteriorate the character of such writing.
Much more might be said on this subject; but, to the wise, a word is
sufficient. And it would ill become one who is endeavouring to recommend
conciseness, to disfigure that very endeavour by diffuseness.
WORDS FOR MUSIC.
BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.
I.
I knew a sweet girl, with a bonny blue eye,
Who was born in the shade
The witch-hazel-tree made,
Where the brook sang a song
All the summer-day long,
And the moments, like birdlings went by,--
Like the birdlings the moments flew by.
II.
I knew a fair maid, soul enchanting in grace,
Who replied to my vow,
Neath the hazel-tree bough:
"Like the brook to the sea,
Oh, I yearn, love, for thee."
And she hid in my bosom her face--
In my bosom her beautiful face.
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