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
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 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,
Like her tiara's brightest jewel,
Cold-hard-till kindled by some art,
Then quenchless burns-itself its fuel-

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―
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 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
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 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:
Voila pourquoi je ne saurais l'aimer."

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!
Alas! if he looks like another,

A vicar, a banker, a beau,

Be deaf to your father and mother,
My own Araminta, say “No!"

If he wears a top boot in his wooing,
If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,
If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,

Scribe.

If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself "Thompson" or "Skinner," My own Araminta, say "No!"