CONFESSIONS. 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 my 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 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, 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, Recal my boyhood's faltered vow, And marvel-if she still believes it. But she is woman-and her heart, 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― I have my doubts, and it-believers, 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 doGood 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 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, 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 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 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, The hue of his coat and his cheek! A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, If he wears a top boot in his wooing, Scribe. If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner," My own Araminta, say "No!" |