visions I had indulged in, the sweet hopes I had cherished were blasted-overthrown-by a talker— a mere talker, whose idle news of this person and that were more welcome, more attractive, than all my silent adoration, my submissive attachment * ** * * * Ellen did not mean to wound me; she would not hurt the meanest insect. My own temperament was my enemy. Naturally sensitive, that sensibility was nursed into morbid sickliness by romantic reading and solitary habits-alone on the mountain, in the valley, by the sea beaten cliff, my spirits were high, unchained, and buoyant. My wildest imaginations might utter themselves aloud; my day-dreams were realities: there was no sneer to repress them, no wisdom to display their folly. In society it was otherwise. I felt no interest in the subjects on which others conversed; wrapped up in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts, my conversation would be unintelligible to, my words misunderstood by my young companions. Even Ellen knew me not. I appeared to her wayward-a riddle-which she could not, or would not solve.

*

*

*

My visitor left me—and, though pique kept me for some days from Ellen's window, I returned by degrees to my former habit-my former happiness. Thus passed my time in passionate tranquillity, and when I left my station by the cottage, it was only to brood over a romance in some wave

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. There 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.

To

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.

To

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?"
I 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.

SCOTT.

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!