tance every time he cries-save only when a pin pricks him, or the nurse drops him into the fire.

I have lately written an Essay to read before the Zoological Society, in which I suggest the expediency of drowning like puppies all children that are not sensible-looking and cleanly in the nose at six months.

You will of course say this is profane, and when I think of your beautiful boy with the dark eye and stern lip, even so young, of his noble and departed father, I could cut Lascelles out of my will (he is down for my cameo Cupid) for making light of childhood, but, do you know, for all this, and with the earnest love I feel always for a beautiful child, I like it-because everything sweet is so profaned by this scribbling world, and, in the very temper of contradiction, if things that are holy to me must be written on, I would rather have them travestied than described. To my surprise, Lascelles has in one of his productions come very near the sentimental. In waltzing a night or two ago with a very lovely woman whose slight embonpoint and refined appreciation of his French gloves have won somewhat upon that trite organ he calls his heart, she broke a beautiful Mosaic bracelet, and giving him the fragments made him promise to send them to her the next morning with a sonnet. I cannot conceive of his appropriating those taper and cherished fingers of his to such a serious service, and with what grace or face he wrote the first stanzas I cannot divine. They run thus:

"Twas broken in the gliding dance,

When thou wert in thy dream of power,

When lip and motion, tone and glance

Were glorious all-the woman's hour!

The light lay soft upon thy brow,

The music melted on thine ear,

And one, perhaps forgotten now,

With wildered thoughts stood listening near-
Marvelling not that links of gold

A pulse like thine had not controlled.

"Tis midnight now—the dance is done

And thou in thy rich dreams asleep :

And I, awake, am gazing on

The fragments given me to keep.

I think of every glowing vein

That ran beneath these links of gold,

And wonder if a thrill of pain

Made those bright channels ever cold

With gifts like thine I cannot think

Grief ever chilled this broken link.

Good night! 'tis little now to thee

That in my ear thy words were spoken,

And thou wilt think of them and me
As long as of the bracelet broken.
And thus is riven many a chain

That thou hast fastened but to break,
And thus thou'lt sink to sleep again
As careless if another wake-
The only thought thy heart can rend
Is what the fellow'll charge to mend !

have tempted him to Pity-is it not? The Among the other con

Nothing but a new sensation would forego the bathos of that conclusion. verses would have been pretty else. tributions is the following thorough-going sentiment which would be better any where than in a paper got up expressly pour la bagatelle :

I look upon the fading flowers

Thou gavest me, lady, in thy mirth,
And mourn, that with the perishing hours
Such fair things perish from the earth;
For thus, I know, the moment's feeling
Its own light web of life unweaves,
The clearest trace from memory stealing,
Like perfume from these dying leaves—
The thought that gave it and the flower
Alike the creatures of an hour.

And thus it better were, perhaps—
For feeling is the nurse of pain;
And joys that linger in their lapse
Must die at last-and so are vain.
Could I revive these faded flowers-
Could I call back departed bliss-
I would not-though this world of ours
Were ten times brighter than it is.
They must, and let them, pass away!
We are forgotten-even as they.

And here are some verses written by a tall pastoral-looking youth who wanders round the piazzas with a straw hat in his hand, the most diffident and melancholy-looking stripling I have seen since I used to meet such, arm in arm, in the promiscuous rambling places about college. The verses are addressed to a wild and beautiful creature here who took a fancy that flirtation with a scholar would be something vastly new and refreshing, and devoted herself to him with singular constancy one whole day and night. She puts up her glass at him now, and asks who he is-poor fellow! But these are his verses:

We met like rain-drops in the air,
Like colors blending in the sky-
A common path we knew not where,
A common trust, we knew not why.
I heard thy tone as I would hear

The winding of a viewless spell—
The coming from another sphere

Of sounds whose compass none can tell-
The link that binds the leaves of flowers
Was not more strange and sweet than ours.

I've listened to thy voice one day—

I've wandered by thy side one night-
Like birds upon their swiftest way

My presence will have crossed thy sight.
Yet in that "inward leaf" is writ

Deeply the letters of thy name,

And I shall more remember it

Than many a sentence traced in flame-
'Tis written with that "golden pen"
That writes with fire the hearts of men.

Farewell-the dew drops in the river,
The bubbles of the summer rain,
The shafts selected from the quiver
Divide, and meet no more again;
And we, when this brief day is past,
Shall only know that we have met,
And, smiling as we hurried past,

Had time to say "Do not forget!'
Yet conscious, pleasant as they were,
That tone and smile were traced in air.

There, dear Lady Heron, have I not gazetted you to your heart's content, as well as to the letter of your command? I am sure you never wasted your bright eyes upon such a dismal chapter of sottises before, and I would not have intruded them into the sacred atmosphere of that daintiest of boudoirs where I presume you are reading them, could I have otherwise obeyed you. But when the heart is full of one thrilling presence and the mind is forced to go out and busy itself about everything indifferent else, how can you expect from it either earnestness or success. No, Lady-I dream of you waking and sleeping. I find the letters of your name in the stars, and I scrawl it, where I should rather write my own, upon the sand, and it is carved on the hemlocks in these deep woods, and on the silver cup from which, with a horror of the universal glass, I drink the medicinal waters—and how can I, this being true, write to you graphically or even continuously of other people or things. Love with me is exis

tence. It is infused into every breath I draw, and it touches with its sad earnest every thought and tone. I should not love at all, if every drop in the fountains of my life were not tinged with its glowing color. So farewell, and when you sing Alice Gray, and when you walk on the sheltered terrace where I first uttered a rash word to you, and when you sit beneath that silken curtain to watch for the springing of your favorite star in the twilight sky-remember me! Good night. Angels keep you!

SUMMER.

"Summer is come-all pleasantness and sweet winds."

THE Summer is fair in the sun-lit air,

And the distance of the sky;

And merrily and sunnily

The winds blow, low and high

The South's at rest, and the bright pure West,
And the wind that dwells between

In the leafy bowers, where the silver showers,
And the winds from heaven lean,

And wander through, and distil a dew

On the lips of the waving leaves

And the cloud floats low, and slow and slow
The sun his mist-veil weaves,

Like an ardent lover to spread it over

The brow of the silent moon

And there comes a wind, and its tracks we find

At midnight or mid-noon

A charm it brings with its unseen wings,

And its slight and dewy feet,

And every flower, with a golden shower
Of love its fingers greet.

The bland south-west comes on the breast
Of the cloudy and stormy sea;

And leaves it as calm, with its silent charm,
As the upper heavens be.

It comes on the dells, and the flower bells

Under its feet look up;

And it shakes a dew of a silver hue

On every fairy cup.

It comes on the hills, and the summer rills
Are leaping faster along;

It holds its wing over birds that sing,
And they chant a merrier song;
Its pinions are bowed on the idle cloud,
And its fervors of warmth and love
Waft it up in the sky, till far and high
It floats like a white-winged dove.

It comes on the eye where the fever-mists lie,
And spurns them away from their throne,
And lights it again with a constant rain

Of love and light alone.

It waves it wings with hidden springs
Of dew-light over the brow,

And leaves it as bright, as the pure delight

Of the clouds that run and bow Before the car of the burning star,

That we have named the sun;

When the early dawn of the blushing morn
His journey has begun.

The winds are here, and bright and clear
The blue sky looks about,

Like a great sea, and silently

The winds go in and out;

And cloudy isles, with sunny smiles,

Are sailing on its breast

All over that ocean with a gentle motion,

And a state of moving rest.

The bright sun shoots on the flowers and fruits

His hot and life-winged shafts;

And of odors and dew, as his beams fly through

The air, he takes rich draughts;

And his light is asleep on the hills and the steeps-
On the green plains and the dells-

On the ocean waves-round the hidden caves-
With its brightness and its spells;

And at coming of night, with a fainting light,
The moon steals over the sky,

And, like a maid, one half afraid,
Looks down with a timid eye.

At night or noon, by sun or moon,
Beauty is everywhere;

And SUMMER is bright, and happy, and light,
And sunny, and very fair.

A. P.