"I sat over against a window where there stood a pot with very pretty flowers; and I 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!

Oh! 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 Althorp or Earl Grey?
They cannot ease me of my window-tax
Over the way!

Even on Sunday my devotions vary,

And from St. Bennet Fink they go astray
To dear St. Mary Overy-the Mary
Over the way!

Oh! if my godmother were but a fairy,
With magic wand, how I would beg and pray
That she would change me into that canary
Over the way!

I envy everything that's near Miss Lindo,

A pug, a poll, a squirrel or a jay

Blest blue-bottles! that buzz about the window
Over the way!

Even at even, for there be no shutters,

I see her reading on from grave to gay,
Some tale or poem, till the candle gutters
Over the way!

And then-oh! then-while the clear waxen taper

Emits, two stories high, a starlike ray,

I see twelve auburn curls put into paper
Over the way!

But how breathe unto her my deep regards,
Or ask her for a whispered ay or nay,-
Or offer her my hand, some thirty yards
Over the way!

Cold as the pole she is to my adoring-
Like Captain Lyon, at Repulse's Bay,
I meet an icy end to my exploring

Over the way!

Each dirty little Savoyard that dances

She looks on-Punch-or chimney sweeps in May;
Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances
Over the way?

Half out she leans to watch a tumbling brat,
Or yelping cur, run over by a dray;

But I'm in love-she never pities that!

Over the way!

I go to the same church-a love-lost labour; Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play; She does not seem to know she has a neighbour Over the way!

At private theatres she never acts;

No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts

Over the way!

To billets-doux by post she shows no favour-
In short, there is no plot that I can lay

To break my window-pains to my enslaver
Over the way!

I play the flute-she heeds not my chromatics-
No friend an introduction can purvey;

I wish a fire would break out in the attics

Over the way!

My wasted form ought of itself to touch her;

My baker feels my appetite decay;

And as for butchers' meat-oh! she's my
Over the way!

At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out
Over the way!

butcher

I'm weary of my life; without regret
I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette

Over the way!

I've fitted bullets to my pistol-bore;

I've vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray,
Quite sick of number one-and number four
Over the way!

Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy,
Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé,
A horse -a cow-six fowls-a pig-and Mary,
Over the way

!

Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,

Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite
Over the way!

I've coo'd with her in dreams, like any turtle,

I've snatch'd her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and Tay;

Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle

Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop,

Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat "poshay,"

And showered crowns to make the horses gallop
Over the way!

And thrice I've started up from dreams appalling

Of killing rivals in a bloody fray—

There is a young man very fond of calling

Over the way!

Oh! happy man-above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,

And add a tale of love to that one story
Over the way!

Nabob of Arcot-Despot of Japan-
Sultan of Persia-Emperor of Cathay-
Much rather would I be the happy man

Over the way!

With such a lot my heart would be in clover-
But what-oh horror!-what do I survey!
Postillions and white favours!-all is over

In a morning paper justly celebrated for the acuteness of its reporters, and their almost prophetic insight into character and motives-the Rhodian length of their leaps towards results, and the magnitude of their inferences, beyond the drawing of Meux's dray horses, there appeared, a few days since, the following paragraph.