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Nor listen to the charming cry
Of contest or of victory,
That speaks what those young bosoms feel,
As keel is pressing fast on keel;
Oh! bright these glories still shall be,
But they shall never dawn for me.


THERE was a time young Roland thought

His huntsman's call was worth a dozen Of those sweet notes his ear had caught

In boyhood, from his blue-eyed cousin,
How is it now that by my first .

Silent he sits, nor cares to follow
His deep-mouth'd stag-hound's matin burst,

His clear-ton'd huntsman's joyous hollo ?

How is it now, when Isabel

Breathes one low note of those sweet numbers, That every thought of hill ard dell,

And all-save that sweet minstrel-slumbers. Why does he feel that long, dull pain

Within my Second when she leaves him ? When shall his falcon fly again ?

When shall he break the spell that grieves hiin?

And Isabel—how is it, too,

That sadness o'er that young brow closes ? How hath her eye lost half its blue ?

How have her cheeks lost all their roses ?

Still on her lute sweet numbers dwell,

Still magic seems the breath that sways it; But, oh! how changed the tone and spell,

If Roland be not there to praise it!

One summer's eve, while Isabel

Sang till the starlight came to greet her, A tear from Roland's eyelid fell,

And warp'd the string and spoild the metre. She could not sing another note;

Wherefore, or why, I've not a notion ; And he—the swelling in his throat

Seemed working from some poisonous potion.

I know not-I-how sigh or tear

Cause these hysterical effusions ; But from that eve, one little year

Witnessed, you'll say, such strange conclusions. Beside my All I saw them sit;

And that same lute of song so tenderA little child was thumping it

With all his might—against the fender!

And Isabel—she sang no more,

But ever that small urchin followed ; Who with the lute upon the floor,

Like a young dryad, whooped and holloed ! And Roland's hound is heard again,

And Roland's hawk hath loosened jesses ! But Roland's smile is brightest when

Beside my All his boy he presses.

SIR HARRY is famed for his amiable way
Of talking a deal when he's nothing to say:
Sir Harry will sit by our Rosalie's side,
And whisper from morn until eventide ;
Yet, if you would ask of that maiden fair
What Sir Harry said while he lingered there;
Were the maiden as clever as L. E. L.
Not a word that he said could the maiden tell!

Sir Harry has ears, and Sir Harry has eyes,
And Sir Harry has teeth of the usual size;
His nose is a nose of the every-day sort,
Not exceedingly long, nor excessively short;
And his breath, tho' resembling in naught the “sweet

Is inhaled through his lips, and exhaled from his mouth;
And yet from the hour that Sir Harry was nursed,
People said that his head was no more than my First !

Sir Harry has ringlets he curls every day,
And a fortune he spends in pomatums, they say ;
He is just such a youth as our Rosalie bides with,
When she has’nt got me to take waltzes or rides with;
But not such a one as, I ween, she would choose,
Were a youth that I know to be caught in the noose;
For I've oft heard her say—tho' so flighty she's reck-

oned— That she'd ne'er take a bridegroom who hadn't my Se

cond !

Sir Harry sat out, the last visit he paid,
From when breakfast was over, till dinner was laid !
He talked, in his usual lady-like way,
Of the ball and the ballet—the park and the play:
Little Rosa, who hoped, ere the whole day had passed,
That the youth would speak out, to the purpose, at last,
When evening at length was beginning to fall,
Declared that Sir Harry was naught but my All!


MORNING is beaming o'er brake and bower,
Hark! to the chimes from yonder tower,
Call ye my. First from her chamber now,
With her snowy veil and her jeweled brow.

Lo! where my Second, in gorgeous array,
Leads from his stable her beautiful bay,
Looking for her, as he curvets by,
With an arching neck, and a glancing eye.

Spread is the banquet, and studied the song.;
Ranged in meet order the menial throng,
Jerome is ready with book and stole,
And the maidens fling flowers, but where is my Whole.

Look to the hill, is he climbing its side ?
Look to the stream—is he crossing its tide ?.
Out on the false one! he comes not yet,
Lady, forget him, yea, scorn and forget.

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