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FROM THE MANUSCRIPT OF A SEXAGENARIAN.
In youth, when pen and fingers first
Coined rhymes for all who choose to seek 'em, Ere luring hope's gay bubbles burst,
Or Chitty was my vade mecum, Ere years had charactered
brow With the deep lines, that well become it, Or told me that warm hearts could grow
Cold as Mont Blanc's snow-covered summit.
When my slow step and solemn swing
Were steadier and somewhat brisker, When velvet collars were “the thing,"
And long before I wore a whisker, Ere I had measured six feet two,
Or bought Havanas by the dozen, I fell in love-as many do
She was an angel-hem-my cousin.
Sometimes my eye, its furtive glance
Cast back on memory's short-hand record; I wonder—if by any chance
Life's future page will be so checkered !
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 leñt
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, Recal 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,
Then quenchless burns itself its fuel-
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 surg, 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 me She quitė forgot me in three weeks !
And other beauties soon trepanned me. We met-and did not find it hard
Joy's overwhelming tide to smotherThere was a “Mrs." on my card,
And she 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:
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!
A vicar, a banker, a beau,
My own Araminta, say "No!"
If he wears a top boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself “Thompson” or “Skinner,"
My own Araminta, say "No!"