I've looked on peril-it has glared

In fashionable forms upon me,
From leveled aim-from weapon bared—
And doctors three attending on me!

But never did my sternness wane

At pang by shot or steel imparted,

I'd not recall that hour of pain

For years of bliss-it passed-we parted.

We parted-though her tear-gemmed cheeks, Her heaving breast had thus unmanned me— She quite forgot me in three weeks!

And other beauties soon trepanned me,

We met and did not find it hard

Joy's overwhelming tide to smotherThere was a "Mrs." on my card,

And she was married to another!

A LETTER OF ADVICE.

FROM MISS MEDORIA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON.

"Enfin, Monsieur, un homme amiable:

Voila pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer."

You tell me you're promised a lover,
My own Araminta, next week;

Why cannot my fancy discover

The hue of his coat and his cheek!

Alas! if he looks like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,

Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he wears a top boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,
If his brow or his breeding is low,

Scribe.

If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner," My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he studies the news in the papers,
While you are preparing the tea,

If he talks of the damps and the vapours,
While moonlight lies soft on the sea,

If he's sleepy while you are capricious,
If he has not a musical "Oh!"

If he does not call Werter delicious,
My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he ever sets foot in the city,
Among the stockbrokers and Jews,

If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes,

If his lips are not redder than roses,
If his hands are not whiter than snow,

If he has not the model of noses

My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees,

If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,
Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,
If he dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowersMy own Araminta, say “No!”

He must walk like a god of old story,
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile like the sun in its glory,
On the buds he loves ever the best;
And, oh, from its ivory portal,

Like music his soft speech must flow !— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal— My own Araminta, say "No!"

Don't listen to tales of his beauty,

Don't hear what they tell of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe ;-

If he's only an excellent person,—
My own Araminta, say "No!"

OUR BALL.

"Comment! c'est lui? que le je regards encore !-c'est que vraiment il

est bien change; n'est ce pas, mon papa ?"

LES PREMIERS AMOURS.

YOU'LL come to our ball;-since we parted,
I've thought of you more than I'll say ;
Indeed I was half broken-hearted

For a week, when they took you away.
Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers
Our walks on the Ness and the Den,

And echoed the musical numbers

Which you used to sing to me then. I know the romance, since it's over, "Twere idle, or worse, to recall;

I know you're a terrible rover;

But, Clarence, you'll come to our Ball!

It's only a year since, at College,

You put on your cap and your gown;
But, Clarence, you've grown out of knowledge,
And changed from the spur to the crown: