And tell to me, of her afar,

The tender truth thou oft hast told.

Tell me of those who've swiftly fled
From this dark world of guile and pain,
And while thy tale is of the dead,

Breathe out thy meekest, holiest strain.

Tell me of many a day of soul

Of many a night of mirth and whim, When pleasure swam within my bowl, And beauty's lip bedew'd the brim.

Tell me of joys too quickly flown-
Joys which I ne'er again shall prove-
Tell me of friendships past and gone,

But tell me most of woman's love.

Hush, hush! thou dear, thou glowing wire, I cannot bear thy mad'ning strain,

Thou lightest up so fierce a fire,

I must not hear thee throb again.

THE ALTERNATIVE.

ON MARRYING LITTLE MISS BRIDGET LITTLE,

HER SISTER RUTH BEING INCONVENIENTLY LONG.

"No! the world must be peopled-
When I said I would die a bachelor

I did not think I should live till I were married."

"Grave authors say, and witty poets sing,
That honest wedlock is a glorious thing."

MISS Bridget is extremely short,
Miss Ruth extremely tall,

It thus behoves me well to think
Which one 66 my wife" I'll call.

Miss Bridget is (without her shoes)
Three feet, the standard by,

Miss Ruth admeasures, (with them on,)

Alas! four cubits high.

'Tis true that we are somewhere told,

In scripture prose or song

"Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Now, how the deuce the prophet knew

That I should ever want

Miss Little-is a parable

T'expound to you I can't.

And stranger still, how he could tell. Amongst the various sort

Of bigs and littles-whether I

Should want her long or short.

But never mind-since wed I must,
And keep the bridal feast,

At all events, I'd better, of

"Two evils, choose the least."

WRITTEN IN THE " IVY BOWER,"

At the Sand Rock Hotel, Niton, Isle of Wight.

"Night is the time to weep,

To wet with unseen tears

Those groves of memory, where sleep

The joys of other years.

Hopes that were angels in their birth,

But perish'd young, like things of earth."

'TIS calm-and the sea, in a silver repose,

Is lull'd to its evening's rest,

While the lady of night her pale loveliness throws O'er the barque that reclines on its breast.

So calm be the life-sleep ordain'd for the few
That slumber in memory's bed,

And bright and serene be their heaven-ward view,

As the white moon that sails overhead.