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SONG FOR VALENTINE'S DAY. Alas! ere I'm properly frantic
With some such pure figment as this, Some visions, not quite so romantic,
Start up to demolish the bliss; Some Will o' the Wisp in a bonnet
Still leads my lost senses astray, Till up to my ears in a sonnet
I sink upon Valentine's day.
The Dian I half bought a ring for,
On seeing her thrown in the ring ;The Naiad I took such a spring for,
From Waterloo Bridge in the spring ;The trembler I saved from a robber, on
My walk to the Champs Elysée ! The warbler that fainted at Oberon,
Three months before Valentine's day.
The gipsy I once had a spill with,
Bad luck to the Paddington team !The countess I chanced to be ill with
From Dover to Calais by steam ;The lass that inakes tea for Sir Stephen,
The lassie that brings in the tray ;It's odd,—but the betting is even
Between them on Valentine's day.
The white hands I help'd in their nutting ;
The fair neck I cloak'd in the rain ;
My friend in Emanuel lane;
The Saint that adores Lewis Way;
Three couplets last 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, ah! she is buried at Cork ! Adele 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!
I come to the lady at last :
Though idle the lute and the lay,
My fairest, on Valentine's day.
For thee I have open'd 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 burn'd my new play, And I grow philosophical—very !
Except upon Valentine's day.
BY JOHN MALCOLM.
Her mighty sails the breezes swell,
And fast she leaves the lessening land, And from the shore the last farewell
Is waved by many a snowy hand; And weeping eyes are on the main,
Until its verge she wanders o'er; But, from that hour of parting pain,
Oh! she was never heard of more! In her was many a mother's joy,
And love of many a weeping fair; For her was wafted, in its sigh,
The lonely heart's unceasing prayer;
Of ardent youth, that vessel bore;
For she was never heard of more?
Of desolation, doom'd to flee,
Of racking cloud and rolling sea?
Went drifting on a fatal shore? Vain guesses all !-Her destiny
Is dark :-she ne'er was heard of more. The moon hath twelve times changed her form,
From glowing orb to crescent wan; 'Mid skies of calm, and scowl of storm,
Since from her port that ship hath gone; But ocean keeps its secret well;
And though we know that all is o'er, No eye hath seen-no tongue can tell
Her fate :-she ne'er was heard of more!
BY SUMNER L. FAIRFIELD.
Howe'er the sceptic scoffs, the poet sighs,
When harvest days are past, and autumn skies
HOUSEHOLD HOURS. The inspiring air, like spirit voices, sighs 'Mid the close pines and solitary yews, Though the broad leaves on forest boughs look sere, And naked woodlands wail the dying year.
Yet the late season brings no hours of gloom,
Then, side by side, hearts, wedded in their youth,
Frail as the moth's fair wing is common fame,
As fell the prophet's mantle, in old time,