maybe it's deep-you can't tell. The heart's the main thing, AND must I tell thee, dearest, that I trembled, when thy name Was uttered in our household, in honor, or in blame; And when thy manliness and worth all voices echoed loud, I coined some trifling error, my secret to enshroud; Some dust upon the blossom, on the peerless gem a stain, II. Though gallant youths full many might throng the festive hall, III. A dull, dull weight was at my heart, how sad the eve flew by, IV. I dare not own, Confessor, though I remember well, Her eyes, the winning hazel hue, I think I see them now, and me! I felt that she was fair and good, and almost worthy thee! ༨. And must I own, Confessor, how oft I strolled alone, And mused upon thy flattering speech, and most persuasive tone, And marveled that thou didst not say the words I wished yet feared, Full many a castle, fair and grand, my frolic fancy reared, And spite of bitter, rankling words, good-natured friends might say, My trusting heart forever found some cause for thy delay? VI. And yet full oft would I resolve, that never, never more o'er and o'er, A hopeless task indeed it was, such mandate to obey, I counsel each young maiden such trial to essay; But when thy deep devotion no longer was concealed, And jealous doubts and earnest hopes thy changeless heart revealed; VII. The depth of joy which thrilled my soul, forbade my lips to speak, But could a lover's searching glance distrust my mantling cheek; I hoped my life might prove for thee one long self-sacrifice, Elizabeth Austin. MY TAM GLEN. Y heart is a' breaking, dear Tittie, But what will I do wi' Tam Glen? I'm thinking, wi' sie a braw fellow, There's Lowry, the laird of Dumeller, Gude day to you, brute, he comes ben; He brags and he blaws o' his siller, But when will he dance like Tam Glen? My Minnie does constantly deave me, But wha can think sae o' Tam Glen? My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, O wha will I get but Tam Glen? Yestreen at the valentine's dealing, The last Halloween I was wauking, Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry, Robert Burns WOMEN see through Claude Lorraines. R. W. Emerson. THE IMPROVISATRICE. I LOVED him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven That, with him, I would not have borne! L. E. Landon. ONE NE Clairvoyance on earth is certain, and that is the Clairvoyance of true love. GENEVIEVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame; All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I, The moonshine stealing o'er the scene, Few sorrows hath she of her own, The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, She listened with a flitting blush, |