LINES TO J. T. OF IRELAND.

A heartless flirt! with false and wicked eye,

Dost thou not feel thyself a living lie?

Dost thou not hear the ‘still small voice’ upbraid

Thy inmost conscience for the part thou’st played?

How mean the wish to victimize that one

Who ne’er had wooed thee, hadst thou not begun!

Who mark’d with pain thy saddened gaze on him,

Doom’d but to fall a martyr to thy whim;

Whose pallid cheek might win a fiend to spare,

Or soothe the sorrows that had blanched his hair:

Oh, cold-laid plan! drawn on from day to day

To meet the looks thou failed not to display,

Seeking at such a price another’s peace,

To feed the cravings of thy vain caprice;

Led him to think that thou wert all his own,

Then froze his passion with a heart of stone.

Lured by thy wiles, he gave that holiest gift,

A noble soul, before he saw thy drift;

He watched thy bosom heave, he heard thee sigh,

Nor deem’d such looks could cover treachery;

That one so proud could stoop to simulate

The purest feelings of this earthly state.

Yet words were useless, where no sense of blame

Could start a tear, nor tinge thy cheek with shame.

More merciful than thou to him, he prays

No pangs like his may wound thy lingering days;

Implores thy sins to him may be forgiven,

And leaves thee to the clemency of Heaven.

C. W. Day.