And one frail rose in its earliest bloom;
Alas! I meant it for thy hair,
And now I fling it on thy tomb,
To weep and wither there!
Fare ye well, fare ye well!

Sleep, sleep, my love, in fragrant shade,
Droop, droop, to-night, thou blushing token;

A fairer flower shall never fade,

Nor a fonder heart be broken!

V.

(FROM CANTO III.)

Clotilda! many hearts are light,
And many lips dissemble;
But I am thine till priests shall fight,
Or Cœur de Lion tremble !-
Hath Jerome burned his rosary,
Or Richard shrunk from slaughter?
Oh! no, no,

Dream not so!

But till you mean your hopes to die,
Engrave them not in water!

Sweet Ida, on my lonely way
Those tears I will remember,
Till icicles shall cling to May,
Or roses to December -

Are snow-wreaths bound on Summer's brow?
Is drowsy Winter waking?

Oh! no, no,

Dream not so !

But lances, and a lover's vow,

Were only made for breaking.

Lenora, I am faithful still,

By all the saints that listen,

Till this warm heart shall cease to thrill,
Or these wild veins to glisten !—
This bosom,-is its pulse less high?
Or sleeps the storm within it?
Oh no, no,

Dream not so !

But lovers find eternity

In less than half a minute.

And thus to thee I swear to-night,
By thine own lips and tresses,
That I will take no further flight,
Nor break again my jesses:
And wilt thou trust the faith I vowed,
And dream in spite of warning?
Oh! no, no,

Dream not so !

But go and lure the midnight cloud,
Or chain the mist of morning.

These words of mine, so false and bland,
Forget that they were spoken !
The ring is on thy radiant hand,—
Dash down the faithless token!
And will they say that Beauty sinned,
That Woman turned a rover !
Oh no, no,

Dream not so !

But lovers' vows are like the wind

And Vidal is a Lover.

THE SEPARATION.

"Lorsque l'on aime comme il faut
Le moindre éloignement nous tue
Et ce, dont on chérit la vue

Ne revient jamais assez tôt."-MOLIERE. HE's gone, dear Fanny !-gone at last-We've said good-bye-and all is over; 'Twas a gay dream-but it is past

Next Tuesday he will sail from Dover. Well! gentle waves be round his prow! But tear and prayer alike are idle; Oh! who shall fill my album now? And who shall hold my pony's bridle?

Last night he left us after tea

I never thought he'd leave us-never; He was so pleasant, was'nt he?

Papa, too, said he was so clever.
And, Fanny, you'll be glad to hear—
That little boy that looked so yellow,
Whose eyes were so like his-my dear,
Is a poor little orphan fellow !

That odious Miss Lucretia Browne,
Who, with her horrid pugs and Bibles,
Is always running through the town,
And circulating tracts and libels;
Because he never danced with her,
Told dear Mamma such horrid scandal
About his moral character,

For stooping, just to tie a sandal !

She said he went to fights and fairs—
That always gives Papa the fidgets;
She said he did not know his prayers-
He's every Sunday at St. Bridget's!

She said he squeezed one's waist and hands
Whene'er he waltzed-a plague upon her-
I danced with him at Lady Bland's-

He never squeezed me-'pon my honour !

His regiment have got the route,

(They came down here to quell the riot, And now-what can they be about,

The stupid people are so quiet :)— They say it is to India, too,

If there I'm sure he'll get the liver
And should he bathe-he used to do-
They've crocodiles in every river.

There may be bright eyes there—and then!
(I'm sure I love him like a brother ;)
His lute will soon be strung again,

His heart will soon beat for another.
I know him well! he is not false-
But when the song he loves is playing-
Or after he has danced a waltz-

He never knows what he is saying.

I know 'twas wrong 'twas very wrong-
To listen to his wild romancing;
Last night I danced with him too long,—
One's always giddy after dancing:

But when he begged me so to sing,

And when he sighed, and asked me, "Would I?"

And when he took my turquoise ring,

I'm sure I could not help it, could I?

Papa was lecturing the girls,

And talked of settlements and rentals ;-
I wore a white-lace frock-and pearls-
He looked so well in regimentals!

And just before we came away,

While we were waiting for the carriage, I heard him, not quite plainly, say

Something of Blacksmiths—and of marriage.

He promised, if he could get leave,

He'd soon come back-I wonder can he?— Lord Hill is very strict, I b'lieve ;—

(What could he mean by Blacksmiths, Fanny ?) He said he wished we ne'er had met,

I answered-it was lovely weather!—

And then he bade me not forget

The pleasant days we'd passed together.

He's gone-and other lips may weave
A stronger spell than mine to bind him ;
But bid him, if he loves me, leave

Those rhymes he made me love, behind him;
Tell him I know those waywards strings
Not always sound to mirthful measures;
But sighs are sometimes pleasant things,
And tears from those we love are treasures.

Tell him to leave off drinking wine,-
Tell him to break himself off smoking,—
Tell him to go to bed at nine,-

His hours are really quite provoking.
Tell him I hope he won't get fat,—
Tell him to act with due reflection ;-
Tell him to wear a broad-leaf hat,
Or else he'll ruin his complexion.

Tell him I am so ill to-day,

Perhaps to-morrow I'll be better ;-
Tell him before he goes away
To write me a consoling letter: