And do you love your brother James?
And do you pet his mares and setters?
And have your friends romantic names?
And do you write them long long letters?
And are you-since the world began
All women are-a little spiteful?

And don't you dote on Malibran ?

And don't you think Tom Moore delightful?

I see they've brought you flowers to-day;
Delicious food for eyes and noses;
But carelessly you turn away

From all the pinks, and all the roses;
Say, is that fond look sent in search

Of one whose look as fondly answers? And is he, fairest, in the Church?

Or is he ain't he-in the Lancers?

And is your love a motley page

Of black and white, half joy, half sorrow? Are you to wait till you're of age?

Or are you to be his to-morrow?

Or do they bid you, in their scorn,

Your pure and sinless flame to smother?

Is he so very meanly born?

Or are you married to another?

Whate'er you are, at last, adieu !

I think it is your bounden duty To let the rhymes I coin for you

Be prized by all who prize your beauty. From you I seek nor gold nor fame ;

From you I fear no cruel strictures ; I wish some girls that I could name Were half as silent as their pictures!

I REMEMBER--I remember
How my childhood fleeted by,-
The mirth of its December,

And the warmth of its July:
On my brow, love-on my brow, love,
There are no signs of care;

But my pleasures are not now, love,
What Childhood's pleasures were.

Then the bowers-then the bowers
Were blithe as blithe could be ;
And all their radiant flowers

Were coronals for me:

Gems to-night, love-gems to-night, love,

Are gleaming in my hair;

But they are not half so bright, love,

As Childhood's roses were.

I was singing-I was singing,
And my songs were idle words;
But from my heart was springing
Wild music like a bird's:

Now I sing, love-now I sing, love,
A fine Italian air;

But it's not so glad a thing, love,
As Childhood's ballads were !

I was merry-I was merry

When my

little lovers came,

With a lily, or a cherry,

Or a new invented game :

Now I've you, love-now I've

To kneel before me there;

you, love,

But you know you're not so true, love,

As Childhood's lovers were !

PRETTY Coquette, the ceaseless play
Of thine unstudied wit,

And thy dark eye's remembered ray

By buoyant fancy lit,

And thy young forehead's clear expanse,
Where the locks slept, as through the dance,

Dreamlike, I saw thee flit,

Are far too warm and far too fair

To mix with aught of earthly care;

But the vision shall come when my day is done,

A frail and a fair and a fleeting one!

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