THE SECRET!

OR

HOW TO KNOW A MARRIED WOMAN.

"The proper study of mankind is"-Woman.

"Matrimony is a golden chain, inlaid with down."

I KNOW her, yes, I know her for a matrimonial belle,
And every man with half an eye might know her just as well—
I know that she's a-wedded, but I cannot tell you when,
She chose her "lord and master" from out the sons of men.

I know her, on my honour, for a real spousal dame,
And you may take my word for it, that " Mrs." is her name-

I know her for a wife, in fact, I verily may say

As well as if I'd been to church, and given her away.

I know her for a "tender rib"-(it's true, tho' you may laugh,)

I'd know her 'mongst a thousand, for a husband's "better

half"

I know her for a woman that is ta'en to "bed and board

I know her for a benedict-I do upon my word.

I know her-(but what nonsense to thus keep "knowing" on,
Since that she is a wife is plain to every knowing one)—

I know her (how ridiculous to argue in this way,
As if there was a doubt upon the truth of what I say).

I know her for a man's help-mate-most certainly I do,
And if you look, where I have look'd, then you will know it

too

I know her " O pray tell me, how you know this mystic thing?"

By (what the devil should it be, but by) her-wedding ring!

LINES

Written in a Lady's Album.

"Never durst poet touch a pen to write

Until his ink were temper'd with love's sighs."

YE myrtle-crown'd nymphs, who in palm groves assemble, And 'fore whom all poets unwittingly tremble,

Who often give soirees on Phocian mount,

And in chorus bucolic at even-tide chant;

Methinks 'tis Parnassus, that fam'd hill of rhyme,
Where in conclave poetic are gather'd" the Nine,"
And from whose lyric synod a precept must spring,
Ere even poor Caleb's empower'd to sing.

To thee then in numbers unskilful and wild, (The language, alas! of adversity's child,) For pardon in thus from Castalia sipping

The dew of the stream that for poets is fitting,

Sues the humblest of minstrels, that e'er, in thy grove,
Cull'd the blossoms of friendship, or flowrets of love,

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LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM.

Whose harp in its fervent outpourings has rung

For the faithful and kind-for the lovely was strung; And whose muse ne'er gave birth to a couplet or strain That to being on earth was the offspring of pain.

To thee then, sweet girls of the Rythmical sphere-
(Who I love the next best to our goddesses here,)
To thee as a liegeman of Po'sy I bend,

And invoke thy bright smiles in the cause of a friend.
A favourite of thine, and thy children of verse,
Has bidden thy son a few lines to rehearse

In what we call an album-(or, as you would say
In your flow'ry language-a written bouquet,)
But it grieves me, I own, to inscribe on its sheets,
For 'tis mixing a weed with a nosegay of sweets.

In tenderness, therefore, ye Muses, look down,
And the cause of thy bard, make a cause of thine own :
Let the leaves of this book, like the leaves of the rose,
The more beauties unbosom, the more they unclose;

Let its pages be sacred to friendship and truth,

And while charming the ear, "point the moral" for youth;

And O, above all, yield this boon to my sighs

Let it hymn dearest woman's fond praise to the ski

THE MINSTREL'S DEATH-LAY.

"There's a cure for every thing but a broken heart."

"It is no marvel-from my very birth

My soul was drunk with love."

Lay me beneath the orange tree,

Whose flow'rs for brides alone may bloom,
That beauty's foot may tempted be
To lightly press on Caleb's tomb.

LAND of Ausonia's by-gone brave,

With pious step thy fields I tread ;

Since thou art but one mighty grave,

Where take their sleep, thy warrior-dead.