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And even from your side, Love,

And even from this scene,
One look is o'er the tide, Love,

One thought with Josephine.
Alas! your lips are rosier,

Your eyes of softer blue,
And I have never felt for her

As I have felt for you ; Our love was like the bright snow-flakes

Which melt before you pass,
Or the bubble on the wine, which breaks

Before you lip the glass;
You saw these eyelids wet, Love,

Which she has never seen ;
But bid me not forget, Love,

My poor Josephine !



By a General Lover. “Mille gravem telis, exhaustå pene pharetra." APOLLO has peeped through the shutter,

And awakened the witty and fair ; The boarding-school belle's in a flutter,

The twopenny post's in despair ;
The breath of the morning is Ainging

A magic on blossom, on spray,
And cockneys and sparrows are singing

In chorus on Valentine's Day.

Away with ye, dreams of disaster,

Away with ye, visions of law, Of cases I never shall master,

Of pleadings I never shall draw ! Away with ye, parchments and papers,

Red tapes, unread volumes, away! It gives a fond lover the vapours

To see you on Valentine's Day.



I'll sit in my nightcap, like Hayley,

I'll sit with my arms crost, like Spain. Till joys, which are vanishing daily,

Come back in their lustre again;
Oh! shall I look over the waters, .

Or shall I look over the way,
For the brightest and best of earth's daughters,

To rhyme to, on Valentine's Day?

Shall I crown with my worship, for fame's sake,

Some goddess whom Fashion has starred, Make puns on Miss Love and her namesake,

Or pray for a pas with Brocard ? Shall I Airt, in romantic idea,

With Chester's adorable clay, Or whisper in transport “ Si mea*

Cum vestris-on Valentine's Day?

Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia,

Who no one e'er saw, or may see,
A fancy-drawn Laura-Amelia,

An ad libit. Anna Marie ?
Shall I court an initial with stars to it,

Go mad for a G. or a J.,
* Si mea cum vestris valuissent vota I-OVID, Met.

Get Bishop to put a few bars to it,

And print it on Valentine's Day?

I think not of Laura the witty ;

For, oh! she is married at York ! I sigh not for Rose of the City,

For, oh ! she is buried at Cork ! Adèle has a braver and better

To say—what I never could say ; Louise cannot construe a letter

Of English, on Valentine's Day.

So perish the leaves in the arbour !

The tree is all bare in the blast; Like a wreck that is drifting to harbour,

I come to thee, Lady, at last : Where art thou, so lovely and lonely?

Though idle the lute and the lay, The lute and the lay are thine only,

My fairest, on Valentine's Day.

For thee I have opened my Blackstone,

For thee I have shut up myself ; Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton,

And laid my short whist on the shelf; For thee I have sold my old sherry,

For thee I have burnt my new play ; And I grow philosophical,—very !

Except upon Valentine's Day!

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PALINODIA. “Nec meus hic sermo est, sed quem præcepit.”


THERE was a time, when I could feel

All passion's hopes and fears ;
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal

By smiles and sighs and tears.
The days are gonel no more—no more

The cruel Fates allow;
And though I'm hardly twenty-four, -
I'm not a lover now.
Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow;
My day is night, my bloom is blight;

I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,

I laugh at girls and boys,
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,

And very fond of noise ;
I never wander forth alone

Upon the mountain's brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone ;-

I'm not a lover now !

I never wish to raise a veil,

I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,

I never tell a lie :
I cannot kneel, as once I did ;

I've quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid;

I'm not a lover now !

I make strange blunders every day,

If I would be gallant ;
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,

And nieces for their aunt:
I fly from folly, though it flows

From lips of loveliest glow;
I don't object to length of nose ;-

I'm not a lover now !
I find my Ovid very dry,

My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,

Tom Moore for Mr. Mill.
And belles may read, and beaux may write,-

I care not who or how;
I burnt my Album, Sunday night;

I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams

Of poison or of ropes :
I cannot dine on airy schemes ;

I cannot sup on hopes :
New milk, I own, is very fine,

Just foaming from the cow ;
But yet I want my pint of wine ;-

I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,

I'm deafer than the deep;
When Leonora goes to play,

I sometimes go to sleep;
When Mary draws her white gloves out,

I never dance, I vow,-
“ Too hot to kick one's heel's about !"

I'm not a lover now!

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