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 the 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 Ronzo would come back again,

And criticised Pacini ;

I wished the chorus singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogised Brocard's a plomb,

And voted Paul "terrific."

What cared she for Medea's pride

Or Desdemona's sorrow?

"Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We must have storms 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,
And Vienna's dread of treason;
And Laura asked me where the glass,
Stood at Madrid last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds, The week before, of scandal;

What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds, And Jane take up her Handel;

Why Julia walked upon the heath,

With the pale moon above her;

Where Flora lost her false front teeth,
And Anne her false lover;

How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.

Had crossed the sea together;

My shuddering partner cried-"Oh, Ceil! How could they in such weather?

Was she a blue?—I put my trust

In strata, petals, gases;
A boudoir-pedant ?—I discussed

The toga and the fasces;

A cockney-muse?—I mouthed a deal

Of folly from Endymion ;

A saint?-I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon ;
A politician ?-It was vain

To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms come again,

Rain, hail, and snow, and vapour.

Flat flattery was my only chance,
I acted deep devotion,

Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;

I wasted all a stripling's lore,

Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;

And wildly looked upon the floor,
And wildly on the ceiling ;

I envied gloves upon her arm,
And shawls upon her shoulder;

And when my worship was most warm,

She "

never found it colder."

I don't object to wealth or land :
And she will have the giving

Of an extremely pretty hand,

Some thousands, and a living.

She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,

Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday schools,

And sits a horse divinely,

But to be linked for life to her!

The desperate man who tried it,

Might marry a barometer,

And hang himself beside it!

LETTER FROM

MISS AMELIA JANE MORTIMER, LONDON,

TO SIR HENRY CLIFFORD, PARIS.

DEAR Harry you owe me a letter-
Nay, I really believe it is two;

But I make you still farther my debtor-
I send you this brief billet-doux.

The shock was so great when we parted,
I can't overcome my regret :
At first I was quite broken-hearted,
And have never recovered it yet!

I have scarcely been out to a party,
But have sent an excuse, or been ill;
I have played but three times at ecarte,
And danced but a single quadrille ;

And then I was sad, for my heart ne'er
One moment ceased thinking of thee-
I'd a handsome young man for a partner,
And a handsomer still vis-a-vis.