Go cold to my heart, full many a time,
But I never felt so lone!

For the lion and Adam were company,
And the tiger him beguil'd;

But the simple kine are foes to my life,
And the household brutes are wild.
If the veriest cur would lick my hand,
I could love it like a child!

And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream, At night, to make me madder,—

And my wretched conscience, within my breast, Is like a stinging adder;—

I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot,

And look at the rope and ladder!

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!

THE SEASON.

SUMMER'S gone and over!
Fogs are falling down;

And with russet tinges
Autumn's doing brown.

Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,

And the Book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

Round the tops of houses,
Swallows, as they flit,
Give, like yearly tenants,
Notices to quit.

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!

1

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 realA 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 With palpitations of the heart-like mine

A 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.

FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.

AN OLD BALLAD.

YOUNG Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;

And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.

But as they fetch'd a walk one day,

They met a press-gang crew;

And Sally she did faint away,

Whilst Ben he was brought to.

The Boatswain swore with wicked words, Enough to shock a saint,

That though she did seem in a fit,

'Twas nothing but a feint.

“Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,

He'll be as good as me;

For when your swain is in our boat,

A boatswain he will be."