Much peace will be hers! "If our lot must be lowly, Resemble thy father, though with us no more;" And only on days that are high or are holy, She will show him the cross that her warrior wore. So taught, he will rather take after his father, And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss; Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother Victoria's gift--the Victoria Cross! And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell; And at times she will quote, with complacency simple, The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well. And then will her darling, like all good and true ones, Console and sustain her,--the weak and the strong;-- And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones Will smile on his path as he journeys along. Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe, Of course of all beauties she must be the _belle_, If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe, He will not fall out with a draught from the Well. ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plait pris entierement. She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A delicate lady in bridal attire,-- Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;-- Half London was there, and, my word, there were few, Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour, So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender, Departing you leave us the town dim! May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought, And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, Prove worthy thy worship,--confound him! SORRENTO. Sorrento, stella d'amore.--VINCENZO DA FILICAIA. Sorrento! Love's Star! Land Of myrtle and vine, I come from a far land To kneel at thy shrine; Thy brows wear a garland, Oh, weave one for mine! Thine image, fair city, Smiles fair in the sea,-- A youth sings a pretty Song, tempered with glee,-- The mirth and the ditty Are mournful to me. Ah, sea boy, how strange is The carol you sing! Let Psyche, who ranges The gardens of Spring, Remember the changes December will bring. MARCH, 1862. JANET. I see her portrait hanging there, Her face, but only half as fair, And while I scan it, Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met-- She smiles. I never can forget The smile of Janet. A matchless grace of head and hand, Can Art pourtray an air more grand? It cannot--can it? And then the brow, the lips, the eyes-- You look as if you could despise Devotion, Janet.