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 do?— Good 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.

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 meShe 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 smother

There was a "Mrs." on her card,

And I- -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,

Scribe.

If his brow or his breeding is low, 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 vapors, 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: