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Our love was like most other loves ;

A little glow, a little shiver,
A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves,

And “ Fly not yet ”-upon the river ;
Some jealousy of some one's heir,

Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, A miniature, a lock of hair,

The usual vows, -and then we parted. We parted ; months and years roll’d by ;

We met again four summers after : Our parting was all sob and sigh ;

Our meeting was all mirth and laughter : For in my heart's most secret cell

There had been many other lodgers ; And she was not the ball-room's Belle, But only-Mrs. Something Rogers !

Winthrop M, Praed.



I PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing,

When I was six and you were four;
When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing,

Were pleasures soon to please no more.
Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather,

With little playmates, to and fro,
We wander'd hand in hand together ;

But that was sixty years ago. You grew a lovely roseate maiden,

And still our early love was strong; Still with no care our days were laden,

They glided joyously along ; And I did love you very dearly

How dearly, words want power to show;
I thought your heart was touched as nearly ;

But that was fifty years ago.
Then other lovers came around you,

Your beauty grew from year to year,
And many a splendid circle found you

The centre of its glittering sphere.

I saw you then, first vows forsaking,

On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, --

But that was forty years ago.
And I lived on, to wed another :

No cause she gave me to repine ;
And when I heard you were a mother,

I did not wish the children mine.
My own young flock, in fair progression,

Made up a pleasant Christmas row :
My joy in them was past expression ;-

But that was thirty years ago.
You grew a matron plump and comely,

You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ;
My earthly lot was far more homely;

But I too had my festal dạys.
No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd

Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
Than when my youngest child was christen'd:--

But that was twenty years ago. Time

past. My eldest girl was married, And I am now a grandsire grey; One pet of four years old I've carried

Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. In our old fields of childish pleasure,

Where now, as then, the cowslips blow,
She fills her basket's ample measure,-

And that is not ten years ago.
But tho' first love's impassion'd blindness

Has pass’d away in colder light,
I still have thought of you with kindness,

And shall do, till our last good-night.
The ever-rolling silent hours

Will bring a time we shall not know, When our young days of gathering flowers Will be an hundred years ago.

Thomas L. Peacock



A TEMPLE to Friendship,” said Laura, enchanted,

“I'll build in this garden,--the thought is divine !" Her temple was built, and she now only wanted

An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her

A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent; But so cold and so dull, that the youthful adorer

Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant.

“O never,” she cried, “could I think of enshrining

An image whose looks are so joyless and dim :But yon little god, upon roses reclining,

We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of him.” So the bargain was struck : with the little god laden

She joyfully flew to her shrine in the grove : “ Farewell,” said the sculptor, “you're not the first maiden Who came but for Friendship and took away Love."

Thomas Moore.



Composed at Rotterdam.
I GAZE upon a city,-
A city new and strange, -
Down many a watery vista
My fancy takes a range ;
From side to side I saunter,
And wonder where I am ;
And can you be in England,
And I at Rotterdam !

Before me lie dark waters
In broad canals and deep,
Whereon the silver moonbeams
Sleep, restless in their slecp ;

A sort of vulgar Venice
Reminds me where I am ;
Yes, yes, you are in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.
Tall houses with quaint gables,
Where frequent windows shine,
And quays that lead to bridges,
And trees in formal line,
And masts of spicy vessels
From western Surinam,
All tell me you're in England,
But I'm in Rotterdam.

Those sailors, how outlandish
The face and form of each !
They deal in foreign gestures,
And use a foreign speech;
A tongue not learn'd near Isis,
Or studied by the Cam,
Declares that you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.

And now across a market
My doubtful way I trace,
Where stands a solemn statue
The Genius of the place;
And to the great Erasmus
I offer my salaam;
Who tells me you're in England
But I'm at Rotterdam.
The coffee-room is open--
I mingle in its crowd,-
The dominos are noisy-
The hookahs raise a cloud;
The flavour, none of Fearon's,
That mingles with my dram,
Reminds me you're in England,
And I'm at Rotterdam.

Then here it goes, a bumper--
The toast it shall he mine,
In schiedam, or in sherry,
Tokay, or hock of Rhine;

It well deserves the brightest,
Where sunbeam ever swam-
“ The Girl I love in England”
I drink at Rotterdam !

Thomas Hood.



SOME years ago, ere time and taste

Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy, When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,

And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green,

And guided to the Parson's wicket. Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seem'd to say-

“Our master knows you-you're expected.' Uprose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Uprose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Barrow; Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reach'd his journey's end,

And warm’d himself in Court or College, He had not gain’d an honest friend

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge, If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,-Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,

And not the Vicarage, or the Vicar,

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