Ere sin original was known,

Did Adam groan beneath the syntax ? How strange to parley with the dead! Keep ye your green, wan leaves? How

many

From Friendship's tree untimely shed!
And here is one as sad as any;
A ghastly bill! "I disapprove,"
And yet She helped me to defray it-
What tokens of a mother's love!

Oh, bitter thought! I can't repay it. And here's the offer that I wrote

In '33 to Lucy Diver;

And here John Wylie's begging note,— He never paid me back a stiver.

And here my feud with Major Spike, Our bet about the French Invasion; I must confess I acted like

A donkey upon that occasion.

Here's news from Paternoster Row!

How mad I was when first I learn'd it: They would not take my book, and now I'd give a trifle to have burnt it.

And here a pile of notes, at last, With “love," and "dove," and "sever," "never :"

Though hope, though passion may be past,
Their perfume is as sweet as ever.

A human heart should beat for two,
Despite the scoffs of single scorners;
And all the hearths I ever knew

Had got a pair of chimney corners.

See here a double violet

Two locks of hair-a deal of scandal; I'll burn what only brings regret— Go, Betty, fetch a lighted candle.

FREDERICK LOCKER.

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLA BAISSE.

A STREET there is in Paris famous,

For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is— The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.