THERE was a time when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears;
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,
By smiles, and sighs, and tears!
The days are gone! no more, no more,
The cruel fates allow;

And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,-
I'm not a lover now!

Lady, the mist is on my sight;

The chill is on my brow;

My day is night, my bloom is blight;
I'm not a lover now!

I never talk about the clouds,

I laugh at girls and boys;
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;

I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain's brow;

I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone!
I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;

I never tell a tender tale,

I never tell a lie;

I cannot kneel as once I did;

I've quite forgot my bow;

I never do as I am bid,—
I'm not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day,

If I would be gallant;

Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey,

And nieces for their aunt:

I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;

I don't object to length of nose,-
I'm not a lover now!

The Muse's steed is very fleet,—
I'd rather ride my mare;
The Poet hunts a quaint conceit,-
I'd rather hunt a hare;

I've learnt to utter yours and you,
Instead of thine and thou;

And, oh! I can't endure a Blue!-
I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid very dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill;
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,

Tom Moore for Mr. Mill:

And Belles may read, and Beaux may write, I care not who or how;

I burnt my Album Sunday night;

I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams
Of poison or of ropes;

I cannot dine on airy schemes,
I cannot sup on hopes:

New milk, I own, is

very fine,

Just foaming from the cow;

But, yet, I want my pint of wine :—

I'm not a lover now!

When Laura sings young hearts away,

I'm deafer than the deep;

When Leonora goes to play,

I sometimes go to sleep;

When Mary draws her white gloves out,

I never dance, I vow;

"Too hot to kick one's heels about!" I'm not a lover now!

I'm busy now with state affairs,
I prate of Pitt and Fox;

I ask the price of rail-road shares,
I watch the turns of stocks:

And this is life! no verdure blooms

Upon the withered bough.

I save a fortune in perfumes;

I'm not a lover now!

I may be, yet, what others are,
A boudoir's babbling fool;

The flattered star of Bench or Bar,
A party's chief or tool;

Come shower or sunshine,-hope or fear,-
The palace or the plough,—

My heart and lute are broken here;

I'm not a lover now!

Lady, the mist is on my sight,

The chill is on my brow;

My day is night, my bloom is blight;

I'm not a lover now!

Friendship's Offering.

THE HOUR OF PHANTASY

BY ISMAEL FITZADAM.

THERE is an hour when all our past pursuits, The dreams and passions of our early day,— The unripe blessedness that dropped away From our young tree of life,-like blasted fruits, All rush upon the soul: some beauteous form Of one we loved and lost; or dying tone, Haunting the heart with music that has flown, Still lingers near us, with an awful charm! I love that hour,-for it is deeply fraught With images of things no more to be; Visions of hope, and pleasure madly sought, And sweeter dreams of love and purity;— The poesy of heart, that smiled in pain, And all my boyhood worshipped—but vain! Literary Souvenir.

BY MRS. HEMANS.

Her sails are draggled in the brine,

That gladdened late the skies;

And her pennon, that kissed the fair moonshine,

Down many a fathom lies.

ALL night the booming minute-gun
Had pealed along the deep,
And mournfully the rising sun
Looked o'er the tide-worn steep.
A bark, from India's coral strand,
Before the rushing blast,

Had vailed her topsails to the sand,

And bowed her noble mast.

WILSON.

The queenly ship !—brave hearts had striven,

And true ones died with her!

We saw her mighty cable riven,

Like floating gossamer!

We saw her proud flag struck that morn,

A star once o'er the seas,

Her helm beat down, her deck uptorn,-
And sadder things than these!`

We saw her treasures cast away;
The rocks with pearl were sown;
And, strangely sad, the ruby's ray
Flashed out o'er fretted stone;

And gold was strewn the wet sands o'er,
Like ashes by a breeze,

And gorgeous robes,-but oh! that shore
Had sadder sights than these!

We saw the strong man, still and low,
A crushed reed thrown aside!

Yet, by that rigid lip and brow,
Not without strife he died!

And near him on the sea-weed lay,
Till then we had not wept,

But well our gushing hearts might say,
That there a mother slept;

For her pale arms a babe had pressed *
With such a wreathing grasp,

Billows had dashed o'er that fond breast,

Yet not undone the clasp!

Her very tresses had been flung
To wrap the child's fair form,

Where still their wet, long streamers clung,
All tangled by the storm.

And beautiful, 'midst that wild scene,
Gleamed up the boy's dead face,
Like Slumber's, trustingly serene,
In melancholy grace.

Deep in her bosom lay his head,
With half-shut violet eye ;-
He had known little of her dread,
Nought of her agony!

Oh, human love! whose yearning heart

Through all things vainly true,

So stamps upon thy mortal part,

Its passionate adieu !

Surely thou hast another lot,

There is some home for thee,

Where thou shalt rest, remembering not
The moaning of the sea!

Literary Souvenir.

This circumstance is related of Mrs. Cargill, an actress of some celebrity, who was shipwrecked on the rocks of Scilly, when returning from India.