That Julio was no flatterer, none at all,

She told herself and then she told her beads Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall

Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds;
For sleep had crept and kissed her unawares,
Just at the half-way milestone of her prayers.

Then like a drooping rose so bended she,
Till her bowed head upon her hand reposed;
But still she plainly saw, or seemed to see,
That fair reflection, though her eyes were closed,
A beauty bright, as it was wont to be,

A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed: 'Tis very natural, some people say,

To dream of what we dwell on in the day.

Still shone her face yet not, alas! the same,
But 'gan some dreary touches to assume,
And sadder thoughts with sadder changes came

Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom, Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same,

Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum : There was a throbbing at her heart within,

For, O! there was a shooting in her chin.

And, lo! upon her sad desponding brow

The cruel trenches of besieging age,

With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show
Her place was booking for the seventh stage;
And where her raven tresses used to flow,

Some locks that time had left her in his rage,
And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady,
A compound (like our Psalms) of tête and braidy.
Then for her shape - alas! how Saturn wrecks,
And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about,

Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks,
Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout,
Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex :
Witness those pensioners called In and Out,
Who, all day watching first and second rater,
Quaintly unbend themselves

but grow no straighter

So time with fair Bianca dealt, and made
Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow;
His iron hand upon her spine he laid,

And twisted all awry her "winsome marrow.'
In truth it was a change! she had obeyed

The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow,
But spectacles and palsy seemed to make her
Something between a Glassite and a Quaker.

Her grief and gall meanwhile were quite extreme,
And she had ample reason for her trouble;
For what sad maiden can endure to seem

Set in for singleness, though growing double?
The fancy maddened her; but now the dream,
Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble,
Burst, but still left some fragments of its size,
That, like the soap-suds, smarted, in her eyes.

And here just here as she began to heed
The real world, her clock chimed out its score;
A clock it was of the Venetian breed,

That cried the hour from one to twenty-four.
The works moreover standing in some need

Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more;
A warning voice that clenched Bianca's fears,
Such strokes referring doubtless to her years.
At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun,

By twenty she had quite renounced the veil;

She thought of Julio just at twenty-one,

And thirty made her very sad and pale,

To paint that ruin where her charms would run;
At forty all the maid began to fail,

And thought no higher, as the late dream crossed her,
Of single blessedness, than single Gloster.

And so Bianca changed; the next sweet even,
With Julio in a black Venetian bark,
Rowed slow and stealthily- the hour, eleven,
Just sounding from the tower old St. Mark,
She sate with eyes turned quietly to heaven,
Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark

That veiled her blushing cheek, for Julio brought her
Of course to break the ice upon the water.

But what a puzzle is one's serious mind
To open! oysters, when the ice is thick,
Are not so difficult and disinclined;

And Julio felt the declaration stick
About his throat in a most awful kind; .
However, he contrived by bits to pick
His trouble forth, much like a rotten cork
Groped from a long-necked bottle with a fork.

But Love is still the quickest of all readers;
And Julio spent, besides those signs profuse
That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders,
In help of language, are so apt to use,
Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders,

Nods, shrugs and bends, Bianca could not choose

But soften to his suit with more facility,

He told his story with so much agility.

"Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear, (So he began at last to speak or quote ;)

Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier,
(For passion takes this figurative note ;)
Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier ;

Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote;
My lily be, and I will be thy river;
Be thou my life and I will be thy liver."

This, with more tender logic of the kind,

He poured into her small and shell-like ear, That timidly against his lips inclined :

Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere That even now began to steal behind

A dewy vapor, which was lingering near, Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale, Just like a virgin putting on the veil : —

Bidding adieu to all her sparks

the stars,

That erst had wooed and worshipped in her trair Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars,. Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, But turned to Julio at the dark eclipse, With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips.

He took the hint full speedily, and, backed

By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, Bestowed a something on her cheek that smacked (Though quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness; That made her think all other kisses lacked

Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness : Being used but sisterly salutes to feel,

Insipid things — like sandwiches of veal.

He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring

The pretty fingers all, instead of one;

Anon his stealthy arm began to cling

About her waist that had been clasped by none; Their dear confessions I forbear to sing,

Since cold description would but be outrun;
For bliss and Irish watches have the power
In twenty minutes to lose half an hour!

OVER THE WAY.

"I sat over against a window where there stood a pot with very pretty flowers; and had my eyes fixed on it, when on a sudden the window opened, and a young lady appeared whose beauty struck me." ARABIAN NIGHTS.

ALAS! the flames of an unhappy lover
About my heart and on my vitals prey;
I've caught a fever that I can't get over,
Over the way!

O! why are eyes of hazel? noses Grecian ?
I've lost my rest by night, my peace by day,
For want of some brown Holland or Venetian,
Over the way!

I've gazed too often, till my heart's as lost
As any needle in a stack of hay:
Crosses belong to love, and mine is crossed
Over the way!

I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax-
Of what avail Lord Althorpe or Earl Grey?
They cannot ease me of my window-tax

Over the way!

Even on Sunday my devotions vary,

And from St. Bennet Flint they go astray

To dear St. Mary Overy the Mary

Over the way!