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THE BACHELOR'S LAMENT.

Age comes, I see his grim array,— Days of my youth, of love, farewell! Life's varied colours turn to gray, Life's music sinks into a knell.

Yet mourn I not with youth to part,
But mourn that, fleeing, she has left
No ties to cheer my lonely heart,
Of all her smiling dreams bereft.

Think not that heart has never felt

The radiant force of beauty's eye; Nor known the flame that all can melt, Nor labour'd with a lover's sigh.

Fair was the maid that taught it first To glow with love's mysterious light, When opening scenes of pleasure burst On youthful passion's eager sight.

Her timid glance was downward thrown, Her bosom heaved beneath its vest; From lips of love came love's true tone, A blush-it would not be repress'd.

Away, ye visions of my prime!

Your bright illusions wake despair;
And yet, to flee the present time,
Still would my fancy revel there.

In hopeless mood to wake at morn,
To eat the solitary meal;

To wander, to return forlorn,

To feel the void none else can feel:

To list the clock, to count the hours,

To watch the embers all alone;
To feel that time saps all my powers,
Yet leads no infant likeness on-

No prattling babe to run and smile,
With cherub lip and liquid eye;
And little hands outspread the while,
Looks upward turn'd and joyful cry-

Such is my doom: no children's charms,
No father's feelings-worse than this,
No gentle creature fills my arms,

The soul and centre of my bliss.

Her, who imparts its finest tone

To life, and only lives for you;
Who twines her being round your own—
That lovely thing I never knew.

The married pair feel many a woe,

And fate their dearest ties may sever;

But, ah! the pain they cannot know

Of joys like theirs thus lost for ever!

After the gentleman had read these verses, I requested permission to view the hand-writing, which I recognized immediately as that of my friend, Gisborne. While I was mentioning the discovery, Gisborne himself entered the room; I immediately put the verses into his hand-he reddened-there was a general burst of laughter. He bit his lips, tried to

force a smile, and to put on a cavalier air. "Gen

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tlemen," says he, you make yourselves very merry, I am glad of it; the verses are undoubtedly mine, although I cannot conceive how you got hold of them: but you forget that the essence of poetry is fiction. The truth is, that in the impartiality of my nature, I was trying, a few days ago, to find out if anything really could be urged in favour of 'the holy state;' and, perceiving that the considerations on this side of the question were too bare to be exhibited in plain prose, I had recourse to verse, as admitting that degree of exaggeration, of colouring, and heightening, of which they stood in so much need."

Perhaps this was extricating himself from his false position' with as good a grace as the affair admitted; and our silence (for we immediately let the subject drop) allowed him to imagine he had succeeded in convincing us that the poem was a mere frolic of fancy.

Farewell.

F. R.

LETTER VII.

Recollections of Holydays at School-Rustic Parties of Pleasure-Account of an Excursion to visit the Ruins of an old Castle.

MY DEAR FRIEND,

You will recollect the joyous holydays we used to have when you and I were at school together; the days when we visited some romantic spot half a dozen miles distant; the pleasure of anticipation the day before, and the bustle of preparation in the morning. In what wild ecstasy we rambled over the fields as we were going, plucking flowers, and trying, with scientific ambition, to recollect their botanical names; or jumping over hedges and gates, by way of showing our agility, till at length we arrived at the place of destination, exhausted and weary in limb, but with appetites more vigorous than ever.

It was no des

picable pleasure we then enjoyed, stretched

on the grass,

"Prostrati in gramine molli,

Propter aquæ rivum, sub ramis arboris altæ ;"

and partaking of that homely refreshment which we had brought along with us, or procured from some neighbouring cottage. But perhaps the most deeply felt pleasure of these excursions was on our return home about sunset. As we walked along, linked arm in arm, our conversation grew more interesting, and our thoughts more concentrated, while the shades of coming night deepened around us. We would listen with almost breathless interest to some one of the party who was narrating the exploits of banditti, or the appearance of a spectre. There was something in the thickening twilight which elevated our thoughts, and produced a feeling of solemnity combined with pleasure; a frame of mind partly perhaps the result of a day spent contrary to our usual routine, in innocent amusements, and with spirits raised above the ordinary pitch. We talked, too, of our future prospects; how we, who now formed a band of brothers, should hereafter be cast asunder on the wide world,

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