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Sleep on, sleep on! oh! Manhood's dreams

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure, Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes,

Of cherished love or hoarded treasure: But to the couch where Childhood lies

A more delicious trance is given, Lit up by rays from seraph eyes,

And glimpses of remembered Heaven!

LOVE AT A ROUT.
WHEN some mad poet stops to muse
About the moonlight and the dews,

The Fairies and the Fauns,
He's apt to think, he's apt to swear,
That Cupid reigns not anywhere

Except in groves and lawns,
That none have vulnerable livers
But bards who haunt the banks of rivers,
That none are fair enough for witches
But maids who roam through dells and ditches,
That dreams are twice as sweet as dances,
That cities never breed romances,
That Beauty always keeps a cottage,
And Innocence grows pure on pottage.
Yes ! those dear dreams are all divine ;
And those dear dreams have all been mine ;
I like the dawning of the day,
I like the smell of new-mown hay,
I like the peaches and the posies, –
But chiefly, when the season closes,
I wander from my drowsy desk
To revel in the picturesque,

To hear beneath those hoary trees
The far-off murmur of the seas,
Or trace yon river's many channels
With Petrarch, and a brace of spaniels,
Combining foolish rhymes together,
And killing sorrow, and shoe-leather.

Then, as I see some village maid
Go dancing down the sunny glade,
Coquetting with her fond adorer
As nobler dames have done before her,
“Give me,” I cry, “ the quiet bliss
Of souls like these, of scenes like this;
Where damsels eat and sleep in peace,
Where gallants never heard of Greece,
Where day is day, and night is night,
Where frocks—and morals—both are white;
Blue eyes below-blue skies above- *
Here are the homes, the hearts, for Love !
But this is idle; I have been
A sojourner in many a scene,
And picked up wisdom in my way,
And cared not what I had to pay ;
Smiling and weeping all the while,
As other people weep and smile ;
And I have learnt that Love is not
Confined to any hour or spot ;
He lights the smile and fires the frown
Alike in desert and in town.
I think fair faces not more fair
In Peebles, than in Portman Square,
And glances not a ray more bright
In moonbeams, than in candle-light;
I think much witchcraft oft reposes
Įn wreaths of artificial roses,

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And ringlets—I have ne'er disdained them
Because the barber has profaned them ;
I've been half mad with half a million
Whose legs have never crossed a pillion,
Whose hands have never dressed a salad,
Whose lips have never sung a ballad:
I think that many a modern dance
Breeds pretty subjects for romance ;
And many a concert has its springs
For breaking hearts as well as strings :
In short, I'm very sure that all
Who seek or sigh for Beauty's thrall
May breathe their vows, and feed their passion,
Though whist and waltzing keep in fashion,
And make the most enchanting sonnets,
In spite of diamonds, and French bonnets !

BEAUTY AND HER VISITORS.

I LOOKED for Beauty :--on a throne,

A dazzling throne of light, I found her ; And Music poured its softest tone

And flowers their sweetest breath, around her. A score or two of idle gods,

Some dressed as peers, and some as peasants, Were watching all her smiles and nods,

And making compliments and presents. And first young Love, the rosy boy,

Exhibited his bow and arrows, And gave her many a pretty toy,

Torches, and bleeding hearts, and sparrows :

She told him, as he passed, she knew

Her court would scarcely do without him ; But yet-she hoped they were not true

There were some awkward tales about him. Wealth deemed that magic had no charm

More mighty than the gifts he brought her, And linked around her radiant arm

Bright diamonds of the purest water : The goddess, with a scornful touch,

Unclasped the gaudy, galling fetter ; And said, -she thanked him very much,

She liked a wreath of roses better.
Then Genius snatched his golden lute,

And told a tale of love and glory :
The crowd around were hushed and mute

To hear so sad and sweet a story ;
And Beauty marked the minstrel's cheek,

So very pale-no bust was paler;
Vowed she could listen for a week ;

But really—he should change his tailor ! As died the echo of the strings,

A shadowy Phantom kneeled before her, Looked all unutterable things,

And swore, to see was to adore her ; He called her veil a cruel cloud,

Her cheek a rose, her smile a battery : She fancied it was Wit that bowed ;

I'm almost certain it was Flattery. There was a beldame finding fault

With every person's every feature: And by the sneer, and by the halt,

I knew at once the odious creature :

“You see," quoth Envy, “I am come

To bow—as is my bounden duty ;-
They tell me Beauty is at home ;-.

Impossible ! that can't be Beauty !”
I heard a murmur far and wide

Of “Lord ! how quick the dotard passes !”
As Time threw down at Beauty's side

The prettiest of his clocks and glasses ;
But it was noticed in the throng

How Beauty marred the maker's cunning;
For when she talked, the hands went wrong;

And when she smiled, the sands stopped running.
Death, in a doctor's wig and gown,

Came, arm in arm with Lethe, thither,
And crowned her with a withered crown,

And hinted, Beauty too must wither!
“ Avaunt !" she cried,—“how came he here?

The frightful fiend! he's my abhorrence !"
I went and whispered in her ear,

“He shall not hurt you !-sit to Lawrence !"

THE FORSAKEN.

12

He never meets me as of old,

As friends less cherished meet me ;
His glance is even calm and cold,

To welcome or to greet me:
His sighs ne'er follow where I move,

Or tell what others' sighs do ;-
But though his lips ne'er say, “ I love,"

I often think his eyes do!

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