From that evening I date the first dawn of my bliss;

When we both rattled off in that dear little carriage,

Whose journey, Bob says, is so like Love and Marriage,

66

Beginning gay, desperate, dashing, down-hilly,

And ending as dull as a six-inside Dilly!"

Well, scarcely a wink did I sleep the night through;

And, next day, having scribbled my letter to you,

With a heart full of hope this sweet fellow to meet,

I set out with Papa, to see Louis Dixhuit

Make his bow to some half-dozen women and boys,

Who get up a small concert of shrill Vive le Rois;

And how vastly genteeler, my dear, even this is,

Than vulgar Pall-Mall's oratorio of hisses!

The gardens seem'd full, so, of course, we walk'd o'er 'em,

'Mong orange-trees, clipp'd into townbred decorum,

And daphnes, and vases, and many a

statue

There staring, with not ev'n a stitch on them, at you!

The ponds, too, we view'd stood

awhile on the brink

To contemplate the play of those pretty gold fishes

"Live bullion," says merciless Bob, "which, I think,

Would, if coin'd, with a little mint

sauce, be delicious!"

But what, Dolly, what is the gay

orange grove,

Or gold fishes, to her that's in search of her love?

In vain did I wildly explore every chair Where a thing like a man was - no lover sate there!

In vain my fond eyes did I eagerly cast At the whiskers, mustachios, and wigs that went past,

To obtain, if I could, but a glance at that curl,

A glimpse of those whiskers, as sacred, my girl,

As the lock that, Pa says, is to Mussulmen giv'n,

For the angel to hold by that "lugs them to heaven!”

Alas, there went by me full many a quiz, And mustachios in plenty, but nothing like his!

Disappointed, I found myself sighing out "well-a-day,"

Thought of the words of T-m M-re's Irish Melody,

Something about the "green spot of delight

(Which, you know, Captain Mackintosh sung to us one day); Ah, Dolly, my "spot" was that Saturday night,

And its verdure, how fleeting, had wither'd by Sunday!

We din'd at a tavern- La, what do I say?

If Bob was to know! a Restaurateur's, dear;

The young lady, whose memory is not very correct, must allude, I think, to the following lines:

Oh that fairy form is ne'er forgot,

Which First Love traced;

Still it ling ring haunts the greenest spot

On Memory's waste!

Where your properest ladies go dine every day,

And drink Burgundy out of large tumblers, like beer. Fine Bob (for he's really grown superfine)

Condescended, for once, to make one of the party;

Of course, though but three, we had dinner for nine,

And in spite of my grief, love, I own
I ate hearty.

Indeed, Doll, I know not how 'tis, but, in grief,

I have always found eating a wondrous relief:

And Bob, who's in love, said he felt the same, quite;

"My sighs," said he, "ceas'd with the first glass I drank you ;

The lamb made me tranquil, the puffs made me light,

And now, that all's o'er-why, I'm -pretty well, thank you!

To my great annoyance, we sat rather late;

For Bobby and Pa had a furious debate About singing and cookery Bobby, of

course,

Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force;

And Pa saying, "God only knows which is worst,

The French Singers or Cooks, but I

wish us well over it-

What with old Lais and Very, I'm curst If my head or my stomach will ever recover it!"

'Twas dark, when we got to the Boulevards to stroll,

hero so civil - he

a

was

Such a sweet muslin gown, with a flounce and my frills, You've no notion how rich (though Pa has by the bills) And you'd smile had you seen, when we sat rather near,

Colonel Calicot eying the cambric, my dear.

*Not an unusual mistake with foreigners.

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."-Psalm cxlvii. 3.

OH Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear,
How dark this world would be,

If, when deceived and wounded here,
We could not fly to Thee!
The friends who in our sunshine live,
When winter comes, are flown;
And he who has but tears to give,

Must weep those tears alone.

But Thou wilt heal that broken heart,

Which, like the plants that throw Their fragrance from the wounded part, Breathes sweetness out of woe.

When joy no longer soothes or cheers,
And even the hope that threw

A moment's sparkle o'er our tears,
Is dimm'd and vanish'd too,

Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom,
Did not thy Wing of Love

Come, brightly wafting through the gloom

Our Peace-branch from above? Then sorrow, touch'd by Thee, grows bright

With more than rapture's ray;
As darkness shows us worlds of light
We never saw by day!

PADDY'S METAMORPHOSIS.

ABOUT fifty years since, in the days of our daddies,

That plan was commenced which the wise now applaud,

Of shipping off Ireland's most turbulent Paddies,

As good raw material for settlers, abroad.

Some West-India island, whose name I forget,

Was the region then chos'n for this

scheme so romantic;

And such the success the first colony met,

That a second, soon after, set sail o'er th' Atlantic.

Behold them now safe at the long-look'dfor shore,

Sailing in between banks that the Shannon might greet, And thinking of friends whom, but two years before,

They had sorrow'd to lose, but would soon again meet.

And, hark! from the shore a glad welcome there came

"Arrah, Paddy from Cork, is it you, my sweet boy?"