And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream,

At night, to make me madder,—

And my wretched conscience, within my

Is like a stinging adder;

I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot,

And look at the rope and ladder!

breast,

For hanging looks sweet,-but, alas in vain,

My desperate fancy begs,

I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,

And drink it to the dregs,

For there is not another man alive,

In the world, to pull my legs!

Skies, of fickle temper,

Weep by turns, and laugh

Night and Day together

Taking half-and-half.

So September endeth—
Cold, and most perverse-
But the Month that follows,

Sure will pinch us worse!

LOVE.

O LOVE! what art thou, Love? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits; A player, masquerading many parts

In life's odd carnival ;—a boy that shoots,
From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts;

A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots;
The Puck of Passion-partly false-part real-
A marriageable maiden's "beau ideal."

O Love! what art thou, Love? a wicked thing,
Making green misses spoil their work at school;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering?

Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool?
A youngster, tilting at a wedding ring?
A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool?
A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ?

O Love! what art thou, Love? one that is bad

A

With palpitations of the heart-like mine

poor

bewilder'd maid, making so sad

A necklace of her garters-fell design!

A poet, gone unreasonably mad,

Ending his sonnets with a hempen line?

O Love!-but whither, now? forgive me, pray; I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.