Through sunny May, through sultry Jun-, I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. She was the daughter of a dean, · Her second cousin was a peer, And lord-lieutenant of the county. But titles and the three per cents, And mortgages, and great relations, And India bonds, and tithes and rents, Oh! what are they to love's sensations? Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks, Such wealth, such honours, Cupid chooses; He cares as little for the stocks, As Baron Rothschild for the muses. She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading; She botanized; I envied each Young blossom in her boudoir fading; She warbled Handel; it was grandShe made the Catalina jealous; She touched the organ; I could stand For hours and hours to blow the bellows. She kept an album, too, at home, Well filled with all an album's glories; Paintings of butterflies and Rome, Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories; Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter; And autographs of Prince Lèboo, And recipes of elder water. And she was flattered, worshipped, bored, Her steps were watched, her dress was noted, Her poodle dog was quite adored, Her sayings were extremely quoted. She laughed, and every heart was glad, She smiled on many just for fun I knew that there was nothing in it; I was the first, the only one Her heart had thought of for a minute; I knew it, for she told me so, In phrase which was divinely moulded; She wrote a charming hand, and oh! How sweetly all her notes were folded! Our love was like most other loves- A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows-and then we parted. We parted-months and years rolled by; Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell, There had been many other lodgers; IV. MY PARTNER. "There is, perhaps, no subject of more universal interest in the whole range of natural knowledge, than that of the unceasing fluctuations which take place in the atmosphere in which we are immersed."-British Almanac. AT Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill I danced, last year, my first quadrille, Her cheek with summer's rose might vie, Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky, And well my heart might deem her one I spoke of novels:-" Vivian Grey" And "Frankenstein" alarming; Thought well of "Herbert Lacy," And Lady Morgan's "racy;" I vowed that last new thing of Hook's And Laura said "I dote on books, I talked of music's gorgeous fane, Hoped Ronzi would come back again, I wished the chorus singers dumb, "Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We must have rain to-morrow!" I told her tales of other lands; Of ever-boiling fountains, Of poisonous lakes, and barren sands, Vast forests, trackless mountains: I painted bright Italian skies, I lauded Persian Roses, Coined similes for Spanish eyes, And Laura asked me where the glass |