Wretched woman! I deplore you-
What an old age lies before you!
In that hour of dark despair
All the ghosts of your attractions
Will rise up, and curse your actions,—

Beauty Clare!
HAMILTON AÏDÉ.

A MUSICAL BOX.

KNOW her, the thing of laces, and
silks,

And ribbons, and gauzes, and
crinoline,

With her neck and shoulders as white as milk,
And her doll-like face and conscious mien.

A lay-figure fashioned to fit a dress,

All stuffed within with straw and bran;

Is that a woman to love, to caress?

Is that a creature to charm a man?

Only listen! how charmingly she talks

Of your dress and hers-of the Paris modeOf the coming ball-of the opera-box

Of jupons, and flounces, and fashions abroad. Not a bonnet in church but she knows it well, And Fashion she worships with downcast eyes; A marchande de modes is her oracle,

And Paris her earthly paradise.

She's perfect to whirl with in a waltz;

And her shoulders show well on a soft divan, As she lounges at night and spreads her silks, And plays with her bracelets and flirts her fan; With a little laugh at whatever you say,

And rounding her "No" with a look of surprise,

And lisping her "Yes," with an air distrait,
And a pair of aimless, wandering eyes.

Her duty this Christian never omits!

She makes her calls, and leaves her cards, And enchants a circle of half-fledged wits, And slim attachés and six-foot Guards. Her talk is of people, who're nasty or nice, And she likes little bon-bons of compliments; While she seasons their sweetness, by way of spice, . By some witless scandal she often invents.

Is this the thing for mother or wife?

Could love ever grow on such barren rocks?
Is this a companion to take for a wife?
One might as well marry a musical box.
You exhaust in a day her full extent;

'Tis the same little tinkle of tunes always;
You must wind her up with a compliment,
To be bored with the only airs she plays.
W. W. STORY.

EPISTLE FROM LORD BORINGDON TO
LORD GRANVILLE.

FT you have ask'd me, Granville, why
Of late I heave the frequent sigh?
Why, moping, melancholy, low,

From supper, commons, wine, I go!

Why bows my mind, by care oppress'd,

By day no peace, by night no rest?

Hear, then, my friend, and ne'er you knew
A tale so tender, and so true—

Hear what, though shame my tongue restrain,
My pen with freedom shall explain.

Say, Granville, do you not remember,
About the middle of November,
When Blenheim's hospitable lord
Received us at his cheerful board;
How fair the Ladies Spencer smiled,
Enchanting, witty, courteous, mild?
And mark'd you not how many a glance
Across the table, shot by chance
From fair Eliza's graceful form,
Assail'd and took my heart by storm?
And mark'd you not, with earnest zeal,
I ask'd her, if she'd have some veal?
And how, when conversation's charms
Fresh vigour gave to love's alarms,
My heart was scorch'd, and burnt to tinder
When talking to her at the winder?
These facts premised, you can't but guess
The cause of my uneasiness,

For you have heard, as well as I,
That she'll be married speedily;

And then my grief more plain to tell

Soft cares, sweet fears, fond hopes,-farewell!
But still, tho' false the fleeting dream,
Indulge awhile the tender theme,
And hear, had fortune yet been kind,
How bright the prospect of the mind.
O! had I had it in my power

To wed her-with a suited dower

And proudly bear the beauteous maid
To Saltrum's venerable shade,-

Or if she liked not woods at Saltrum,
Why, nothing easier than to alter 'em,-

Then had I tasted bliss sincere,

And happy been from year to year.

How changed this scene! for now, my Granville, Another match is on the anvil.

And I, a widow'd dove, complain,
And feel no refuge from my pain—
Save that of pitying Spencer's sister,
Who's lost a lord, and gain'd a mister.

RIGHT HON. GEORGE CANNING.

LITTLE LAURETTE.

ITTLE Laurette was sitting beside
Her dressing-room fire, in a dream,

alone;

A mignonne mixture of love and pride

She seemed, as she loosed her zone.

She combed her tresses of wondrous hair,
Her small white feet to the fire peeped out,
Strangely fluttered her bosom fair,

And her lips had a wilful pout.

Whoever had seen that little Laurette,

Looking so innocent, tender, and sweet, Would have long'd to have made her his own, own pet,

To lie at her fair young feet.

Is it fear that dwells in those weird blue eyes?
For it is not love, and it is not sorrow.
Ah! little Laurette, from your dream arise,
You must be married to-morrow.

Married to.one who loves

you well,

Whose wealth to your life will a glory be. Yet I guess you are thinking—who can tell?— Of Frank, who is over the sea.

How happy they were, that girl and boy,

On the garden terrace by moonlight met,

When to look in his eyes was the perfect joy
Of that little darling Laurette.

How wretched they were, that boy and girl,
When for the last, last time they met,
And he carried away a soft bright curl,
And the heart of little Laurette.

Pooh, pooh! her heart? Why she hasn't a heart;
She waltzed that night with Sir Evelyn Vere:
Into the greenhouse they strolled apart-
He's got twenty thousand a year—

A house in Park Lane--a château in France-
A charming villa on Windermere.

She made up her mind in that very first dance
She'd like to be Lady Vere.

The news will go out by the Overland Mail :
In a month or two poor Frank will hear
That London has nothing to do but hail
The beauty of Lady Vere.

She'll be Queen of Fashion, that heartless elf,
Till a younger comes, and the world grows cool.
And as to Frank-will he shoot himself?

Well, I hope he's not quite such a fool.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

A LEGEND OF THE DIVORCE COURT.

UDERLEY woodlands, breezy and

bright,

Were alive with the windflower and harebell blue,

Were sprinkled with marvellous shadow and light, When I went thither to woo.