Is he so very meanly born?

Or are you married to another?

Whate'er you are, at last, adieu!

I think it is your bounden duty To let the rhymes I coin for you,

Be prized by all who prize your beauty. From you I seek nor gold nor fame ;

From you I fear no cruel strictures;

I wish some girls that I could name

Were half as silent as their pictures?

T

CONFESSIONS.

FROM THE MANUSCRIPT OF A SEXAGENARIAN.

In youth, when pen and fingers first

Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek 'em,

Ere luring hope's gay bubbles burst,
Or Chitty was my vade mecum,

Ere

years had charactered my brow

With the deep lines, that well become it,

Or told me that warm hearts could grow

Cold as Mont Blanc's snow-covered summit.

When my slow step and solemn swing

Were steadier and somewhat brisker, When velvet collars were "the thing,"

And long before I wore a whisker, Ere I had measured six feet two,

Or bought Havanas by the dozen,

I fell in love-as many do

She was an angel-hem-my cousin.

Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance

Cast back on memory's short-hand record; I wonder if by any chance

Life's future page will be so checkered!

My angel cousin!-ah! her form-
Her lofty brow-her curls of raven,

Eyes darker than the thunder storm,
Its lightnings flashing from their heaven.

Her lip, with music eloquent

As her own grand upright piano; No-never yet was peri lent

To earth like thee, sweet Adriana.

I may not dare not-call to mind

The joys that once my breast elated, Though yet, methinks, the morning wind Sweeps o'er my ear, with thy tones freighted;

And then I pause, and turn aside

From pleasure's throng of pangless-hearted,

To weep! No. Sentiment and pride

Are by each other always thwarted!

I press my hand upon my brow,

To still the throbbing pulse that heaves it,

Recall my boyhood's faltered vow,
And marvel-if she still believes it.

But she is woman-and her heart,
Like her tiara's brightest jewel,
Cold-hard-till kindled by some art, ⚫
Then quenchless burns-itself its fuel—
So poets say. Well, let it pass,

And those who list may yield it credit;

But as for constancy, alas!

I've never known-I've only read it.

Love! 'tis a roving fire, at most

The cuerpo santa of life's ocean;

Now flashing through the storm, now lost-
Who trust, 'tis said, rue their devotion.
It may be, 'tis a mooted creed-

I have my doubts, and it-believers, Though one is faithless-where's the need Of shunning all-as gay deceivers ?

I said I loved. I did. But ours

Was felt, not growled hyæna fashion!

We wandered not at moonlight hours,

Some dignity restrained the passion! We loved-I never stooped to woo;

We met-I always doffed my beaver; She smiled a careless "how d'ye doGood morning, sir ;"—I rose to leave her.

She loved-she never told me so;

I never asked-I could not doubt it; For there were signs on cheek and brow; And asking! Love is known without it! "Twas understood-we were content,

And rode, and sung, and waltzed together! Alone, without embarrassment

We talked of something-not the weather!

Time rolled along the parting hour

With arrowy speed brought its distresses,

A kiss-a miniature-a flower

A ringlet from those raven tresses;

And the tears that would unbidden start,

(An hour, perhaps, and they had perished,)

In the far chambers of my heart,

I swore her image should be cherished.