A BALL-ROOM ROMANCE.

For him, the light and vain one,

For him there never wakes

That love for which a woman's heart

Will beat until it breaks.

And yet the spell was pleasant,

Though it be broken now,

Like shaking down loose blossoms
From off the careless bough.

Thy words were courtly flattery;
Such sink like morning dew:

But ah! love takes another tone,
The tender and the true.

There's little to remember,

And nothing to regret:

Love touches not the flatterer,

Love chains not the coquette.

'Twas of youth's fairy follies,

By which no shade is cast;

AN EXPOSTULATION.

One of its airy vanities,

And like them it hath past.

No vows were ever plighted,

We'd no farewell to say:

Gay were we when we met at first,
And parted just as gay. . . .

A fair good-night to thee, love,
A fair good-night awhile;

I have no parting sighs to give,

So take my parting smile.

ANONYMOUS.

AN EXPOSTULATION.

W

HEN late I attempted your pity to move,

What made you so deaf to my prayers: Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love,

But why did you kick me down stairs?

ANONYMOUS.

ROSETTE.

(Imitated from the French of BERANGER.)

ES! I know you're very fair;

YES!

And the rose-bloom of your cheek,

And the gold-crown of your hair,

Seem of tender love to speak. But to me they speak in vain,

I am growing old, my pet,Ah! if I could love you now

As I used to love Rosette !

In your carriage every day

I can see you bow and smile;

Lovers your least word obey,

Mistress you of every wile.

She was poor, and went on foot,

Badly drest, you know,-and yet,

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.

Ah! if I could love you now

As I used to love Rosette !

You are clever, and well known

For your wit so quick and free ;Now, Rosette, I blush to own,

Scarcely knew her A B C;

But she had a potent charm
In my youth:-ah, vain regret !

If I could but love you now

As I used to love Rosette !

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.

(Imitated from the French of BÉRANGER.)

N the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs,

IN

And I dream in the firelight's glow,

And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs

That I listened to long ago.

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.

Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp
Like an echoing, answering cry,-

Little we care for the outside world,
My friend the cricket and I.

For my cricket has learnt, I am sure of it quite, That this earth is a silly, strange place,

And perhaps he's been beaten and hurt in the fight, And perhaps he's been passed in the race.

But I know he has found it far better to sing

Than to talk of ill luck and to sigh,

Little we care for the outside world,

My friend the cricket and I.

Perhaps he has loved, and perhaps he has lost, And perhaps he is weary and weak,

And tired of life's torrent, so turbid and tost, And disposed to be mournful and meek.