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Through sunny May, through sultry Jun-,
I loved her with a love eternal;
I spoke her praises to the moon,

I wrote them to the Sunday Journal.
My mother laughed; I soon found out
That ancient ladies have no feeling;
My father frown'd; but how should gout
See any happiness in kneeling?

She was the daughter of a dean,
Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic;
She had one brother, just thirteen,
Whose colour was extremely hectic;
Her grandmother, for many a year,
Had fed the parish with her bounty;

· 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,
As if the taxes were abolished;
She frowned, and every look was sad,
As if the opera were demolished.

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 little glow, a little shiver;

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;
We met again four summers after;
Our parting was all sob and sigh-

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter; For in my heart's most secret cell,

There had been many other lodgers;
And she was not the ball-room's belle,
But only-Mrs. Something Rogers!
(1830.)

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
Of folly and cold water,

I danced, last year, my first quadrille,
With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.

Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;

Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;

And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels:-" Vivian Grey"
Was positively charming,
And "Almack's" infinitely gay,

And "Frankenstein" alarming;
I said "De Vere" was chastely told,

Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"

And Lady Morgan's "racy;"

I vowed that last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining;

And Laura said "I dote on books,
Because it's always raining!"

I talked of music's gorgeous fane,
I raved about Rossini,

Hoped Ronzi would come back again,
And criticised Pacini ;

I wished the chorus singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's à plomb,
And voted Paul "terrific!"
What cared she for Medea's pride
Or Desdemona's sorrow?

"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 jests for Indian noses:
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
Vienna's dread of treason;

And Laura asked me where the glass
Stood at Madrid last season.

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