married unhappily ;-in all but the singularly unfortunate, the integral parts that compose the sum total of the unhappiness of a man's life, are easily counted, and distinctly remembered. The happiness of life, on the contrary, is made up of minute fractions-the little, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt compliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the countless other infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial feeling.

Kath. Well, Sir; you have said quite enough to make me despair of finding a "John Anderson, my Jo, John," with whom to totter down the hill of life.

Fri. Not so! Good men are not, I trust, so much scarcer than good women, but that what another would find in you, you may hope to find in another. But well, however, may that boon be rare, the possession of which would be more than an adequate reward for the rarest virtue.

Eliz. Surely, he, who has described it so well, must have possessed it?

Fri. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had believingly anticipated and not found it, how bitter the disappointment! (Then, after a pause of a few minutes),

ANSWER, ex improviso.

Yes, yes! that boon, life's richest treat

He had, or fancied that he had;

Say, 'twas but in his own conceit—

The fancy made him glad!

Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish,
The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish,

The fair fulfilment of his poesy,

When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy

But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain
Unnourished wane;

Faith asks her daily bread,

And Fancy must be fed.

Now so it chanced-from wet or dry,
It boots not how-I know not why-
She missed her wonted food; and quickly
Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly.
Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and
nay,
His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow;
Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay,
Above its anchor driving to and fro.

That boon, which but to have possest
In a belief, gave life a zest―
Uncertain both what it had been,
And if by error lost, or luck;
And what it was;-an evergreen
Which some insidious blight had struck,
Or annual flower, which, past its blow,
No vernal spell shall e'er revive;
Uncertain, and afraid to know,

Doubts toss'd him to and fro:
Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive,
Like babes bewildered in the snow,
That cling and huddle from the cold
In hollow tree or ruin'd fold.

Those sparkling colours, once his boast
Fading, one by one away,

Thin and hueless as a ghost,

Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay; Ill at distance, worse when near,

Telling her dreams to jealous Fear!
Where was it then, the sociable sprite

That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish i
Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish,
Itself a substance by no other right

But that it intercepted Reason's light;
It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow,
A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow!
Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now.

O bliss of blissful hours!

The boon of Heaven's decreeing,

While yet in Eden's bowers

Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate!
The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing,
They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate
Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose !
Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows
When passion's flowers all fall or fade;

If this were ever his, in outward being,
Or but his own true love's projected shade,
Now that at length by certain proof he knows,
That whether real or a magic show,
Whate'er it was, it is no longer so;
Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low,
Yet, Lady! deem him not unblest:
The certainty that struck hope dead,
Hath left contentment in her stead:
And that is next to best!

ALICE DU CLOS:

OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD.

"One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft: and a slit tongue be his blazon!"-Caucasian Proverb.

"THE Sun is not yet risen,

But the dawn lies red on the dew:

Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, Is seeking, Lady, for you.

Put on your dress of

green,

Your buskins and your quiver;

Lord Julian is a hasty man,

Long waiting brook'd he never.

I dare not doubt him, that he means
To wed you on a day,

Your lord and master for to be,

And you his lady gay.

O Lady! throw your book aside!

I would not that my Lord should chide."

Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight

To Alice, child of old Du Clos,

As spotless fair, as airy light

As that moon-shiny doe,

The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest!
For ere the lark had left his nest,

She in the garden bower below
Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white,
Her face half drooping from the sight,
A snow-drop on a tuft of snow!

A. A

O close your eyes, and strive to see
The studious maid, with book on knee,—
Ah! earliest-open'd flower;

While yet with keen unblunted light
The morning star shone opposite

The lattice of her bower-
Alone of all the starry host,
As if in prideful scorn

Of flight and fear he stay'd behind,
To brave th' advancing morn.

O! Alice could read passing well,
And she was conning then
Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves,
And gods, and beasts, and men.

The vassal's speech, his taunting vein,
It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain;
Yet never from the book

She rais'd her head, nor did she deign
The knight a single look.

"Off, traitor friend! how dar'st thou fix
Thy wanton gaze on me?
And why, against my earnest suit,

Does Julian send by thee?

"Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure:

Fair speed his shafts to-day!

I follow here a stronger lure,
And chase a gentler prey."

She said and with a baleful smile

:

The vassal knight reel'd off