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Our love was like most other loves ;
A little glow, a little shiver,
And “ Fly not yet ”-upon the river ;
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.
LOVE AND AGE.
I PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing,
When I was six and you were four;
Were pleasures soon to please no more.
With little playmates, to and fro,
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;
But that was fifty years ago.
Your beauty grew from year to year,
The centre of its glittering sphere.
I saw you then, first vows forsaking,
On rank and wealth your hand bestow;
But that was forty years ago.
No cause she gave me to repine ;
I did not wish the children mine.
Made up a pleasant Christmas row :
But that was thirty years ago.
You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ;
But I too had my festal dạys.
Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow,
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,
And that is not ten years ago.
Has pass’d away in colder light,
And shall do, till our last good-night.
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.
“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."
Composed at Rotterdam.
Before me lie dark waters
A sort of vulgar Venice
Those sailors, how outlandish
And now across a market
Then here it goes, a bumper--
It well deserves the brightest,
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,