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EVER mind how the pedagogue proses,
You want not antiquity's stamp;

A lip, that such fragrance discloses,
Oh! never should smell of the lamp.

Old Cloe, whose withering kiss

Hath long set the Loves at defiance, Now, done with the science of bliss, May take to the blisses of science.

But for you to be buried in books-
Ah, Fanny, they're pitiful sages,
Who could not in one of your looks
Read more than in millions of pages.

Astronomy finds in those eyes

Better light than she studies above; And Music would borrow your sighs As the melody fittest for love.

Your Arithmetic only can trip

If to count your own charms you endeavour;

And Eloquence glows on your lip

When you swear, that you'll love me for ever.

Thus you see, what a brilliant alliance
Of arts is assembled in you ;--
A course of more exquisite science
Man never need wish to pursue.

And, oh-if a Fellow like me

May confer a diploma of hearts, With my lip thus I seal your degree, My divine little Mistress of Arts!

I FOUND HER NOT.

FOUND her not-the chamber seem'd Like some divinely haunted place, Where fairy forms had lately beam'd,

And left behind their odorous trace!

It felt, as if her lips had shed
A sigh around her, ere she fled,
Which hung, as on a melting lute,
When all the silver chords are mute,
There lingers still a trembling breath
After the note's luxurious death,
A shade of song, a spirit air
Of melodies which had been there.

I saw the veil, which, all the day,

Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;
I saw the couch, where late she lay
In languor of divine repose;

And I could trace the hallow'd print
Her limbs had left, as pure and warm
As if 't were done in rapture's mint,

And Love himself had stamp'd the form.

Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?
In pity fly not thus from me;
Thou art my life, my essence now,

And my soul dies of wanting thee.

LOVE AND REASON.

"Quand l'homme commence à raisonner, il cesse de sentir."

J. J. ROUSSEAU.

WAS in the summer time so sweet,

When hearts and flowers are both in season, That-who, of all the world, should meet,

One early dawn, but Love and Reason.

Love told his dream of yesternight,

While Reason talk'd about the weather;
The morn, in sooth, was fair and bright,
And on they took their way together.

The boy in many a gambol flew,

While Reason, like a Juno, stalk'd,
And from her portly figure threw

A lengthen'd shadow, as she walk`d.

No wonder Love, as on they pass'd,

Should find that sunny morning chill, For still the shadow Reason cast

Fell o'er the boy, and cool'd him still.

In vain he tried his wings to warm,
Or find a pathway not so dim,
For still the maid's gigantic form

Would stalk between the sun and him.

"This must not be," said little Love"The sun was made for more than you."

So, turning through a myrtle grove,

He bid the portly nymph adieu.

Now gaily roves the laughing boy

O'er many a mead, by many a stream;

In every breeze inhaling joy,

And drinking bliss in every beam.

From all the gardens, all the bowers,

He cull'd the many sweets they shaded, And ate the fruits and smell'd the flowers, Till taste was gone and odour faded.

But now the sun, in pomp of noon,
Look'd blazing o'er the sultry plains ;

Alas! the boy grew languid soon,

And fever thrill'd through all his veins.

The dew forsook his baby brow,

No more with healthy bloom he smiledOh! where was tranquil Reason now,

To cast her shadow o'er the child?

Beneath a green and aged palm,

His foot at length for shelter turning, He saw the nymph reclining calm,

With brow as cool as his was burning.

"Oh! take me to that bosom cold," In murmurs at her feet he said; And Reason oped her garment's fold, And flung it round his fever'd head.

He felt her bosom's icy touch,

And soon it lull'd his pulse to rest; For, ah! the chill was quite too much,

And Love expired on Reason's breast!