She is not dead, and she is not wed!

But she loves me now, and she loved me then! And the very first word that her sweet lips said, My heart grew youthful again.

The marchioness there, of Carabas,

She is wealthy, and young, and handsome still; And but for her-well, we 'll let that pass;

She may marry whomever she will.

But I will marry my own first love,

With her primrose face, for old things are best; And the flower in her bosom, I prize it above The brooch in my lady's breast.

The world is filled with folly and sin,

And love must cling where it can, I say: For beauty is easy enough to win;

But one isn't loved every day.

And I think, in the lives of most women and men, There's a moment when all would go smooth

and even,

If only the dead could find out when

To come back and be forgiven.

But O, the smell of that jasmine flower!
And O, that music! and O, the way

That voice rang out from the donjon tower,
Non ti scordar di me,

Non ti scordar di me!

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON (Owen Meredith).

V.

CAUTIONS AND COMPLAINTS.

LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN.

LET not woman e'er complain

Of inconstancy in love;

Let not woman e'er complain
Fickle man is apt to rove;

Look abroad through Nature's range,
Nature's mighty law is change;
Ladies, would it not be strange

Man should then a monster prove?

Mark the winds, and mark the skies;
Ocean's ebb and ocean's flow;

Sun and moon but set to rise,

Round and round the seasons go.

Why then ask of silly man,

To oppose great Nature's plan?
We'll be constant while we can,-

You can be no more, you know.

ROBERT BURNS.

TO CHLOE.

AN APOLOGY FOR GOING INTO THE COUNTRY.

CHLOE, we must not always be in heaven,

Forever toying, ogling, kissing, billing;

The joys for which I thousands would have given,

Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves;
Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;

Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves; Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression, That beauty fadeth by too much possession.

Economy in love is peace to nature,
Much like economy in worldly matter;
We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Profusion will not, cannot always last.

Lovers are really spendthrifts,—'t is a shame,—
Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame,
Till penury stares them in the face;
And when they find an empty purse,

Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse,

And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace! Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder

hung,

Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.

Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose-
Smell twenty times-and then, my dear, thy nose
Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst)
The twentieth drank less flavor than the first.

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
Yet often should the little god retire.
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That keeps alive the sacred fire.

DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (Peter Pindar).

A WOMAN'S ANSWER.

I WILL not let you say a woman's part
Must be to give exclusive love alone;
Dearest, although I love you so, my heart
Answers a thousand claims besides your own.

I love, what do I not love? Earth and air
Find space within my heart, and myriad things
You would not deign to heed are cherished there,
And vibrate on its very inmost strings.

I love the summer, with her ebb and flow

Of light and warmth and music, that have

nursed

Her tender buds to blossoms

and you know

It was in the summer that I saw you first.

I love the winter dearly too, . . . but then
I owe it so much; on a winter's day,
Bleak, cold, and stormy, you returned again

When you had been those weary months away.

I love the stars like friends; so many nights

I gazed at them, when you were far from me, Till I grew blind with tears those far-off

lights

Could watch you, whom I longed in vain to see.

I love the flowers; happy hours lie

Shut up within their petals close and fast: You have forgotten, dear; but they and I Keep every fragment of the golden Past.

I love, too, to be loved; all loving praise
Seems like a crown upon my life,-to make
It better worth the giving, and to raise
Still nearer to your own the heart you take.

I love all good and noble souls; I heard
One speak of you but lately, and for days,
Only to think of it, my soul was stirred

In tender memory of such generous praise.

I love all those who love you, all who owe
Comfort to you; and I can find regret
Even for those poorer hearts who once could
know,

And once could love you, and can now forget.

Well, is my heart so narrow,-I, who spare
Love for all these? Do I not even hold
My favorite books in special tender care,
And prize them as a miser does his gold?

The poets that you used to read to me

While summer twilights faded in the sky;