The Bachelor's Dilemma. "With a bosom whose chords are so tenderly strung, That a word, nay, a look, oft will waken its sighs; With a face, like the heart-searching tones of her tongue, Full of music that charms both the simple and wise. "In my moments of mirth, amid glitter and glee, When the soul takes the hue that is brightest of any, From her sister's enchantment my spirit is free, And the bumper I crown is a bumper to Fanny! "But when shadows come o'er me of sickness or grief, And my heart with a host of wild fancies is swelling, From the blaze of her brightness I turn for relief To the pensive and peace-breathing beauty of Helen. 95 "And when sorrow and joy are so blended together, That to weep I'm unwilling, to smile am as loath; When the beam may be kick'd by the weight of a feather, I would fain keep it even by wedding them both. "But since I must fix or on black eyes or blue, Quickly make up my mind 'twixt a Grace and a Muse, Pr'ythee, Venus, instruct me that course to pursue Which even Paris himself had been puzzled to choose." Thus murmur'd a Bard, predetermined to marry, But so equally charm'd by a Muse and a Grace, That though one of his suits might be doom'd to miscarry, He'd another he straight could prefer in its place. So, trusting that "Fortune would favour the brave," IN Tyre. BY MARY HOWITT. N thought, I saw the palace domes of Tyre; I saw, with gilded prow and silken sail, Oh, gallant ships! 'gainst you what might prevail ! She stood upon her rock, and, in her pride Of strength and beauty, waste and woe defied. I look'd again-I saw a lonely shore, Of trackless sand-I heard the bleak sea's roar, Awhile he look'd upon the sea, and then Upon a book, as if it might supply The things he lack'd :—he read, and gazed again; Yet, as if unbelief so on him wrought, He might not deem this shore the shore he sought. The Horologe. Again I saw him come-'twas eventide ; And push'd his boat ashore, then gather'd he Within her palaces a despot been! Ruin and silence in his courts are met, And on her city-rock the fisher spreads his net!" 97 ON The Horologe. BY T. DOUBLEDAY. NCE, by the dusk light of an ancient hall, Upon the roused ear with a drowsy knell, I look'd; and lo! five Antics over all. One moved, and four were motionless. The one The four were kings. Sceptres they bore, and globes G A Shoots through the yellow pane; It makes the faded crimson bright, And since those trappings first were new, How many a cloudless day, To rob the velvet of its hue, Has come and pass'd away! How many a setting sun hath made Crumbled beneath the hillock green, That carved this fretted door, I ween, And now the worm hath done her part In days of yore (as now we call) All seated round in order due, With 'broider'd suit and buckled shoe. The Squire's Pew. On damask cushions deck'd with fringe, All reverently they knelt; Prayer-books, with brazen hasp and hinge, Each holding in a lily hand, Responsive to the priest's command. Now, streaming down the vaulted aisle, Of their inscription stone; And there, in marble hard and cold, Outstretch'd together are express'd With hands uplifted on the breast, Set forth in order, as they died, For past omissions to atone, By saying endless prayers in stone. Those mellow days are past and dim; In regular descent from him, Have fill'd the stately pew; And in the same succession go To occupy the vault below. 99 |