Last night you must know, at dear Harry's request, I went to our own Mrs. Thingummie's rout,— I wore let me see-oh Lord!-how was I drest?In a Tilbury-what am I driving about!

No matter-but sure all the world, love, was there,— So crowded-you scarce can imagine, my dear,—

The and sedate at whist, commerce, or loo, grave

Were fixt in their chairs-and the fair De Lihu,

Was warbling those strains of enchantment and joy,
That thrill every bosom and brighten each eye;
Preparing the soul-says some learned physician,
For the fever of love, by a pre-disposition!
When all of a sudden my fate stood before me,

In the comeliest form that good humour e'er wore,

And saying, in smiles, it was Heaven to adore me,

His smiles were enough-I could ask for no more.

In a moment a strange palpitation came on,

He looked and I looked-and we both were undone ! -Oh where is the apathy now, that I vowed

Should cover my soul, like my buried love's shroud?

When I fancied that Love, like the slow blooming flower,
Only once in our lives could its lustre impart,

And that when it had blossomed its own little hour,
But withered and died in that hot-bed the heart!
Yet now-(and I blushingly flutter and vapour,
As I trust my most candid confession to paper,)
I feel 'tis quite possible-Lord! how I tremble-
That the exquisite passion may fondly resemble,
Let me see a young rose, putting fragrancy forth,
And shedding its sweets, and its bloom o'er the earth,
AS TOM MOORE says,
as one dies away and is gone,

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Another as sweet and as fragrant comes on."

And thus I will prove-(whate'er Florian may write* About flames that but once can illumine our sight,—

* “Cette passion, si douce et si violente, source de plaisirs, de tourments et de délices, cette flame qui consume, et fait vivre, ne s'allume jamais qu'une fois. Cet attrait, ce charme irresistible, cet elan rapide de toutes les pensées, de tous les sentimens vers un seul objet, ces craintes terribles, ces vives esperances, et ces profondes douleurs pour un regard de colere, et ces ravissemens inexprimables pour un serrement de main, on ne les eprouve plus; ils sont passés avec le premier amour.”— ESTELLE, Livre Troisieme.

About passions, and griefs, and delights, and regrets, And the squeeze of the hand-that one never forgetsAnd that pass, as he says, with the "premier amour") That the thing is romantic-mere gossiping chatter, -Yes, I'll prove by some truths that for ever endure, He knows nothing at all, Biddy, dear! of the matter. No, no, like the Phoenix,* expiring in flame,

On the pile of past raptures and blisses and joy, Love springs to new birth-and for ever the same, His soul newly feathered, soars up to the sky!

Oh, what have I written ?-ne'er trust me, my dear! But my head, and my heart, and my nerves are so

queer,

That I scarcely remember a sentence I write,
My pulses are throbbing with such a delight!
And the tumult of extasy fervently gushes
O'er my forehead and cheeks in a shower of blushes,—

The Phoenix builds itself a pile of sweet wood and aromatic gums, and fires it with the wafting of its wings, and thus consumes itself; from its ashes arises a small worm which in time becomes a Phenix.

When I think how he swore that "these bright eyes

" of mine,"

(Which you called, in sheer envy, insipid and grey,) "Had a lustre so heavenly-so bright-so divine

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They were mild as the *dove's-and as glorious

Oh, could I then cruelly turn them away,

Nor cast one encouraging glance on the hope
That seemed like the rose-bud of promise to ope?-

Oh no, 'tis all settled, and MA' if she will,

May refuse her consent, when he asks her to

morrow,

But I'm his, from this hour-thro' good fortune or ill, Thro' joy or disaster-through gladness or sorrow! Oh, were he but near me! thus seated alone,

In my window, o'erlooking a parterre of roses, Where the loveliest bloom that creation puts on, The light of this rapturous moment discloses!

"Thou hast dove's eyes."

SONG of SOLOMON.

When the sweet breath of flowers is lovingly blown, Thro' my casement's light curtain, so languidly

drawn ;

And each sigh of the breeze has a balm of its own,

And each rose has the bright sparkling hue of the

dawn.

Did I wish he were near me?-what, here by my side?

With my heart fondly sighing o'er visions of bliss, What a Heaven then were mine!-tho' it can't be

denied,

Biddy, dear! tis much better, perhaps, as it is.Oh, hasten to-morrow! fly swiftly away,

Ye hours! that now creep with such chilling delay!
Oh, hasten to-morrow! and bring on your wings
The hope all accomplished, to which my soul clings.—
Adieu, my dear girl!-but first let me implore you
If e'er you would have a dear fellow adore you—
By your precious escape from that calico thing,-
By your hopes of a lover or two in the spring-