There

worn cave, where I still preserved her image before me in the character of my heroine. I quarrelled with, quitted her, fought for, became reconciled, and obtained her. This could not last. cannot be a heaven on earth—at least not long. I enjoyed it for a time with the exception of my visitor. It was too sweet to be prolonged. We left the country.

*

#

My school busines and young ambition struck out new channels for my feelings.-Always ardent, I followed with avidity where they led. My compositions and translations were admired-I should be a translator and composer. I succeeded and was praised; praise and success ruined me. I thought I gained the summit when I only ascended a few steps. Ellen was neglected-not forgotten. My rivals in love became my competitors in literature, and I turned from one boundary to defend the other. Let no fastidious critic call this unnatural, I am the best judge of my own feelings.

Το

WITH COOMBE'S ELEMENTS OF PHRENOLOGY.

I send-and in faith it is time I should send it-
This book about bumps, so long promised to thee
I acknowledge my crime-will not try to defend it,
But let thy own heart my kind advocate be.

Perhaps, when you've studied this book, you may find What portion of my CEREBELLUM is wrong,

And shew cause why a wretch who loves all womankind, Neglected the fairest of women so long.

And, should it appear that some baser propensity
Urged the omission, oh! do not decide

Until your good nature—and you've an immensity-
To come to some kinder conclusion has tried.

Phrenology must in this instance befriend me,

Or else I'll shake hands with its doctrines and part, Unless from the charge of neglect it defend me, The head does not tell the contents of the heart.

For, tho' much to believe in the system inclined,
I still my dear Ellen a sceptic will be,
Until in my poor pericranium it find
A bump of PECULIAR affection for thee.

Το

Dear ELLEN! nine months, since we parted,
Have passed, bringing pleasure and pain
Has the interval left you whole-hearted ?
Shall I meet you unwedded again?
You know 'twas O'CONNELL'S election
First brought us together my dear:
Say, would you have any objection
To another election next year?

I saw, while ago, in the FREEMAN,
A paragraph stating there would;
And urging each half score pound fee-man
To register soon as he could.

In that case, once more I shall wander
Where FERGUS his sullen wave pours;
And, rapt in elysium, I'll ponder

On sunset's soft beauties-and yours.

I'll think how-when SHIEL was declaiming,
And all Ennis ran out to hear-
We sat in the drawing-room, framing
Some plan for our meeting next year;
He raved about VESEY FITZGERALD,
Whose Committee "cough'd and cry'd hem;"
You asked, if I wrote for the " HERALD?"
1 answered, I sighed for the" Gem."

I'll think of our cakes on the griddle,
When the bread at the bakers ran short;
I'll think how with you I used idle,
Tho' business required me in court;

I'll think how I daily grew thinner

As the time of our parting drew near;

And how I drank grog at my dinner,

When the "Forties" drank up all the beer.

I'll think of Miss B

's-How the old one

Would take up the cudgels for D-n,

And, in her high flights, almost scold one

Who would not be his partizan :

How the young, pretty, pale one would linger
All day 'till O'G- -n pass'd by,
And kiss the white tip of her finger,
To catch the arch glance of his eye.

I'll think of the Waterford genius,
Who modestly hinted a fear

(But that secret sweet Ellen's between us)
That he won your affections my dear;
And I'll think how I played off the jealous
Whenever my own little Gem,
Lent ear to the chat of these fellows,

Tho' I felt I was better than them.

I'll think of the beautiful faces

Each window in Ennis displayed,

As if all the loves and the graces

Had there some high festival made:

I'll think-pshaw, this thinking grows stupid-
So I think I had better give o'er;

But soon, with the blessing of Cupid,
I'll visit sweet Ennis once more.

ON THE DEATH OF MISS HELENA JANE T—

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,

But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

Scort.

Thou art pass'd, like the bloom of a summer flower,

Like the balmy breath of a vernal hour,

Like a sweet tone drawn from the air-harp's strings,

Like the spirit of Hope's imaginings;

Oh! all that is loveliest to hear and to see

Of graceful and beautiful pass like thee!

Thou art gone, like a star from the silent night,
When the skirt of the tempest o'ershadows its light ;
Like the diamond dew from the mountain side
When the sun looks out in his fiery pride;
Like the purple streak from the evening sky,
When the shadows of night come sweeping by ;
And ever thus, from our earth, alas!

All things brightest and purest pass.

We knew thou wert leaving us, yet did we twine
The love of our spirits more closely with thine;
Thy voice had a gentler and sweeter tone
Than in happier hours to our hearts was known;
And all we loved in thee grew dearer and dearer,
As the moment of parting came nearer and nearer,
'Till we almost denied thee to HIM who had given
To earth for awhile what he destined for Heaven.

Our flower is gone when its bloom was newest,
Our harp unstrung when its tone was truest,
Our gleam of summer has died in its spring,
Our hope in its birth lies withering,

Our star in its first young splendour shaded,
And the light of our evening hour is faded :

Yet 'tis but for a time

And again we'll meet,

In a happier clime

Amid scenes more sweet;
Where no ray becomes chill,

Where no flower ever dies,
And thou'lt bloom for us still
In Paradise.