Our love was most like other loves,— A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows,—and then we parted.
We parted: months and years rolled by; We met again four summers after. Our parting was all sob and sigh, Our meeting was all mirth and laughter! For in my heart's most secret cell There had been many other lodgers; And she was not the ball-room's belle, But only Mrs.—Something—Rogers!
WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.
ECHO AND THE LOVER.
Lover. Echo! mysterious nymph, declare Of what you're made, and what you are.
Echo. Air!
Lover. Mid airy cliffs and places high, Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie.
Echo. You lie!
Lover. Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,— Hark! how my voice revives, resounds!