GOOD NIGHT.

GOOD night to thee, lady!-though many
Have join'd in the dance to-night,

Thy form was the fairest of any,

Where all was seducing and bright;

Thy smile was the softest and dearest,
Thy form the most sylph-like of all,

And thy voice the most gladsome and clearest
That e'er held a partner in thrall.

Good night to thee, lady!-'tis over-
The waltz, the quadrille, and the song-

The whisper'd farewell of the lover,

The heartless adieu of the throng;

The heart that was throbbing with pleasure,
The eye-lid that long'd for repose-

The beaux that were dreaming of treasure,
The girls that were dreaming of beaux.

"Tis over-the lights are all dying,

The coaches all driving away ;

And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;
And Beauty counts over her numbers

Of conquests, as homeward she drives—
And some are gone home to their slumbers,
And some are gone home to their wives.

And I, while my cab in the shower
Is waiting, the last at the door,

Am looking all round for the flower

That fell from your wreath on the floor.

I'll keep it-if but to remind me,

Though withered and faded its hue

Wherever next season may find me—

Of England-of Almack's-and you!

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely Our path be o'er mountain or sea;

There are looks that will part from us only

When memory ceases to be;

There are hopes which our burden can lighten,
Though toilsome and steep be the way;

And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten
With a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, though nameless;

For aye on the lip they may be ;

There are hearts that, though fetter'd, are tameless,

And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free!

And some are too grave for a rover,
And some for a husband too light.

-The ball and my dream are all over—
Good night to thee, lady! good night!

JOSEPHINE.

WE did not meet in courtly hall,
Where Birth and Beauty throng,
Where Luxury holds festival,

And wit awakes the song;

We met where darker spirits meet,
In the home of Sin and Shame,
Where Satan shows his cloven feet,
And hides his titled name;

And she knew she could not be, Love,

What once she might have been,

But she was kind to me, Love,

My pretty Josephine.

We did not part bencath the sky,

As warmer lovers part,

Where Night conceals the glistening eye,

But not the throbbing heart;

We parted on the spot of ground

Where we first had laughed at love, And ever the jests were loud around,

And the lamps were bright above:

"The heaven is very dark, Love,

The blast is very keen,

But merrily rides my bark, Love-
Good night, my Josephine!"

She did not speak of ring or vow,
But filled the cup of wine,

And took the roses from her brow
To make a wreath for mine;'

And bade me, when the gale should lift
My light skiff on the wave,

To think as little of the gift

As of the hand that gave:

"Go gaily o'er the sea, Love,

And find your own heart's queen ;

And look not back to me, Love,

Your humble Josephine !"

That garland breathes and blooms no more,

Past are those idle hours;

I would not, could I choose, restore

The fondness or the flowers;

Yet oft their withered witchery

Revives its wonted thrill,