Obrazy na stronie


erill err,


I stammered out something --nay, even Is just setting off for Montmartre half named

• for there is, The legitimate sempstress, when, loud he said he, looking solemn, “the tomb of exclaimed

tbe Vérys !? · Yes, yes, by the stitching 'tis plain to Long, long have I wished, as a votary be seen

true, It was made by that B-rb-n-t O'er the grave of such talents to utter b-h Victorine !

my moans ; What a word for a hero! but heroes And to-day, as my stomach in not in

good cue Anu I thought, dear, I'd tell you things For the flesh of the Vérys, I'll visit just as they were.

their bones !' Besides, though the word on good He insists upon my going with himmanners entrench,

how teasing! I assure you 'tis not half so shocking This letter, however, dear Doily, in French.

shall lie

Unsealed in my drawer, that, if any. Bat this cloud, though embarrassing,

thing pleasing

Occurs while I'm out, I may tell you soon passed away,

-Good-bye. And the bliss altogether, the dreams of

B. F. that day,

Four o'clock, The thoughts that arise when such Oh Dolly, dear Dolly, I'm ruined for

dear fellows woo us, – The nothings that then, love, are every. I ne'er shall be happy again, Dolly, thing to us

never ! That quick correspondence of glances To think of the wretch-what a victim and sighs,

was I ! And what Bob calls the "Twopenny 'Tis too much to endure-I shall die, Post of the Eyes '

I shall dieAb Doll! though Ỉ know you've a heart, My brain's in a fever-my pulses beat

'tis in vain To a heart so unpractised these things I shall die, or, at least, be exceedingly

quickto explain.

sick ! They can only be felt in their fulness Oh what do you think? after all my

divine By her who has wandered, at evening's My visions of glory, my sighing, my

romancing, decline, Through a valley like that, with a This Colonel—I scarce can commit it to

glancing, Colonel like mine !


This Colonel's no more than a vile linen. But here I must finish-for Bob, my draper !! dear Dolly

'Tis true as I live - I had coaxed broWhom physic, I find, always makes ther Bob so melancholy,

(You'll hardly make out what I'm writIs seized with a fancy for churchyard ing. I sob so) reflections ;

For some little gift on my birthdayAnd full of all yesterday's rich recol. September


The thirtieth, dear, I'm eighteen, you



! It is the brother of the present excellent res the column at the head of the tomb concludes taurateur who lies entombed so magnificently in with the following words : • Toute sa vie fut the Cimetière Montmartre. The inscription on consacrée aux arts utiles.'


That Bob to a shop kindly ordered the I fell back on Bol)—my whole heart coach

seemed to wither(Ah, little I thought who the shop. And, pale as a ghost, I was carried back man would prove)

hither! so bespeak me a few of those mouchoirs I only remember that Bob, as I caught de poche,

him, Which, in happier hours, I have With cruel facetiousness said, 'Cuise sighed for, my love

the Kiddy! The most beautiful things—two Napo- A staunch Revolutionist always ire leons the price

thought him, And one's name in the corner em- But now I find out he's a Counter broidered so nice !)

one, Biddy!' Well, with heart full of pleasure, I entered the shop,

Only think, my dear creature if this

should be known But-ye Gods, what a phantom !-I thought I should drop

To that saucy, satirical thing, Miss Ma

lone! Chere he stood, my dear Dollyroom for a doubt

What a story 'twill be at Shandangan

for ever! There, behind the vile counter, these eyes saw him stand,

What laughs and what quizzing she'll

have with the men ! With a piece of French cambric before him rolled out,

It will spread through the country, And that horrid yard measure up

and never, oh never raised in his hand !

Can Biddy be seen at Kilrandy again! Oh-Papa, all along, knew the secret, Farewell—I shall do something despe. 'tis clear

rate, I fear'Twas a shopman he meant by a ‘Bran- And, ah ! if any fate ever reaches your

denburg,' dear! Che man, whom I fondly had fancied a One tear of compassion my Doll will

not grudge king, And, when that too delightful illu. To her poor, broken-hearted, young


BIDDY FUDGE. sion was past, As a hero bad worshipped-vile trea- Nota Bene.- I'm sure you will hear cherous thing

with delight, To turn out but a low linen-draper at That we're going, all three, to see Brunet last !

to-night. My head swam around—the wretch A laugh will revive me—and kind Mr. smiled, I believe,

Cox But his smiling, alas ! could no longer (Do you know him ?) has got us the Godeceive

vernor's box !



1819 TO 1828.

ADVERTISEMENT. It is Cicero, I believe, who says, Natura ud modos ducimur ;' and the abun. dance of wild indigenous airs which almost every country except England possesses, sufficiently proves the truth of his assertion. The lovers of this simple but interesting kind of music are here presented with the first number of a collection, which I trust their contributions will enable us to continue. A pretty air without words resembles one of those half creatures of Plato, which are described as wandering, in search of the remainder of themselves, throngh the world. To supply this other half, by uuiting with congenial words the many fugitive melodies which have bitherto hard none, or only such as are unintelligible to the generality of their hearers, is the object and ambition of the present work. Neither is it our intention to contine ourselves to what are strictly called National Melodies; but wherever we meet with any wandering and beautiful air, to which poetry has not yet assigned a worthy home, we shall venture to claim it as an estray swan, and enrich our humble Hippocrene with its soug.

T. M.


Spa ish Air. A TEMPLE to Friendship,' said Laura, 'Oh! never,' she cried, 'could think enchanted,

of enshrining *I'll build in this garden


An image whose looks are so jealous thought is divine!!

and dim ! Her temple was built, and she now But yon little god upon roses reclining, only wanted

We'll make, if you please, Sir, a An image of Friendship to place on Friendship of him.' the shrine.

So the bargain was struck; with the She tlew to a sculptor, who set down little god laden before her

She joyfully flew to her shrine in the A Friendship, the fairest his art grove : could invent,

• Farewell,' said the sculptor, 'you're But so cold and so dull, that the youth- not the first maiden ful adorer

Who came but for Friendship, and Saw plainly this was not the idol she took away Love.'


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Hungarian Air. So warmly we met and so fondly we

parted, That which was the sweeter even 1

could not tell That first look of welcome her sunny

eyes darted, Or that tear of passion which blessed

our farewell. To meet was a heaven, and to part thus

another, -Our joy and our sorrow seemed rivals

in bliss; Oh! Cupid's two eyes are not liker

each other In smiles and in tears, than that mo

ment to this.

But if, in wandering thither,

Thou find'st she mocks my prayer, Then leave those wreaths to wither

Upon the cold bank there. And tell her-thus, when youth is o'er,

Her lone and loveless charms shall be Thrown by upon life's weedy shore,

Like those sweet flowers from thee.



Indian Air.

The first was like day-break-new,

sudden, delicious, The dawn of a pleasure scarce kindled

"Pyet -The last was that farewell of daylight,

more precious, More glowing and deep, as 'tis nearei

its set. Our meeting, though happy, was tinged

by a sorrow To think that such happiness could

not remain ; While our parting, though sad, gave a

hope that to morrow Would bring back the blest hour of

meeting again.

All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the fleetest Ali that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest. Stars that shine and fall ;

The flower that drops in springing;— These, alas ! are types of all

To which our hearts are clinging. All that's bright must fade, -

The brightest still the fleetest; All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest ! Who would seek or prize

Delights that end in aching ? Who would trust to ties

That every hour ara breaking ?
Better far to be

In utter darkness lying,
Than be blest with light and see

That light for ever Hying.
All that's bright must fade,

The brightest still the teetest; All that's sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest !

THOSE EVENING BELLS. AIR-The Bells of St. Petersburgh. THOSE evening bells ! those evening

bells ! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet

time, When last I heard their soothing chime! Those joyous hours are past away! And many a heart that then was gay, Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no inore those evening bells !

And so 'twill be when I am gone; Beauty, who likes to be thought very That tupeful peal will still ring on,

sage, Whileother bards shall walk these dells, Turned for a moment to Reason's dull And sing your praise, sweet evening page, bells !

Till Folly said,

• Look here, sweet maid !'

The sight of his cap brought her back SHOULD THOSE FOND HOPES. to herself;

While Reason read
Portuguese Air.

His leaves of lead, Should those fond hopes e'er forsake With no one to mind him, poor sensible thee,

elf! Which now so sweetly thy heart employ;

Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's Should the cold world come to wake thee gay cap;

From all thy visions of youth and joy; Had he that on, he her heart might Should the gay friends, for whom thou entrapwouldst banish

“There it is, Him who once thought thy young Quoth Folly, old quiz ! heart his own,

But Reason the head-dress so awk All like spring birds, falsely vanish, wardly wore, And leave thy winter unheeded and That Beauty now liked him still less lone ;

than before ;

While Folly took Oh ! 'tis then he thou hast slighted

Old Reason's book. Would come to cheer thee, when all And twisted the leaves in a cap of such seemed o'er ;

Ton, Then the truant, lost and blighted,

That Beauty vowed Would to his bosom be taken once

(Though not aloud), more.

She liked him still better in that thap Like that dear bird we both can re

his own! member, Who left us while summer shone round,

FARE THEE WELL, THOU But, when chilled by bleak December,

LOVELY ONE! Upon our threshold a welcome still found.

Sicilian Air.

FARE thee well, thou lovely one ! REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. Lovely still, but dear no more ; Italian Air,

Once his soul of truth is gone,

Love's sweet life is o'er. REAson, Folly, and Beauty, they say, Thy words, whate'er their flattering Went on a party of pleasure one day : spell, Folly played

Could scarce have thus deceived ; Around the maid,

But eyes that acted truth so well The bell of his cap rung merrily out; Were sure to be believed. While Reason took

Then fare thee well, thou lovely one ! To his sermon-book

Lovely still, but dear no more ; Oh! which was the pleasanter no one Once his soul of truth is gone, need doubt.

Love's sweet life is o'er.


1 The metre of the words is here necessarily sacrificed to the air.

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