PARIS

Paris! I part from thee without one sigh,
Though gay and gorgeous all must own thou art;
And from thy Cybelean forehead start

Temples and palaces-these win the eye

Whilst, harlot-like, thy wiles pollute the heart.
Thou smooth'st away the impress honour's die

Had stamped the soul withal-till it depart

A polished counterfeit: bland perfidy,

Dancing and dice-mime, music, masquerade,

Intrigue, extortion, suicide, and shame

These are the things that make, and long have made

Thy boast, thy notoriety, thy name:

Good God! what foul pre-eminence-and thus
Thy very fame, we find, is-infamous !*

*The author candidly acknowledges that the above sonnet was produced during one of those moments of disgust which every one is subject to, who has to contend with the rapacity and trick which characterize many of those with whom travellers must come into contact in all great cities. And he has no doubt that a Frenchman might be as severe upon London as he has been upon Paris, and, under the influence of irritated feelings, believe and feel the truth of every word he uttered.

H2

CARA

Ay, I remember it-perhaps too well!
Past happiness recalled in present grief
May bring its pang-but never brought relief:
And, Cara, o'er this bosom, like a spell

It can't shake off, thine image reigns the chief

A shrined saint within its ruined cell.

Our bliss was like the Iris-bright and brief:
But ever since that hour we sighed farewell
('Twas on a moonlight eve of early spring—
Even yet I hear that syren voice of thine,
And feel the ruby lip thou gav'st to mine,
And mark thy beaded eyelash glittering)
Like one abandoned on a rock, I see

The fading sail of hope forsaking me!

STANZAS

A throb will heave the vacant breast,

Though scarce a blessing seem denied;
As if the heart had lost its rest,

And sighed nor knew for what it sighed.

When clouds in summer twilight melt,
The silver star they veiled is caught;

And so, when first we met, I felt

My soul had found the star it sought!

Alas! too late-thou wert not freeAnd, like a slave in orient mine,

I mark the wealth that's not for me, While gazing in those eyes of thine.

But is't not hard that he should hold
A blessing whom it can not bless?
As misers tremble o'er the gold

That might have scattered happiness.