And now, kind reader, a word more and we are done. Impressed with the belief that a faint heart never would procure me a wife, I managed to get rid of my timidity as age progressed; and popped the question at various times. But, alas! some objected that my hair was getting gray—others that my complexion was too dark—and one cruel little beauty told me I looked better as a bachelor, than I would as a husband. So here I am, verging to a very uncertain age, with every prospect of a life of single blessedness. I can only say to those of my fair readers, who are opposed to bachelorship, that I am not in fault; and that it is in their power to remedy the evil by addressing me a word of hope. To all who have found anything amusing or interesting in these memoirs thus far, I beg leave to remark that when I am snugly settled, enjoying the sweets of matrimony, I shall present them with the third and last book, of the Misfortunes of a Timid Gentleman. ----- [2] See September Number. * * * * * THE LYRE BIRD. BY N. C. BROOKS. The _Menura Superba_, a species of the Bird of Paradise, is also called the Lyre Bird, from the perfect resemblance of the tail to an ancient lyre. Its powers of song are very great. It commences singing in the morning, and gradually ascends some eminence as it sings.—_Shaw’s Zoology._ Bird of the forest, thy form is fair As a summer cloud on the evening air, And the golden plumage upon thee lies In tintings rich as a rainbow’s dyes; Yet fairer wert thou when thy form, at first From the hands of God like a sunbeam burst, When the velvet shades of the forest glooms Were lit with the light of thy golden plumes, And angel eyes as they passed were turned To the place where thy plumy glory burned. But Sin, that with curse upon all hath lain, Has dimmed thy gloss with many a stain; And the summer’s heat, and the winter’s storm Have blighted and blasted thy early form. Bird of the forest, thy song is sweet As breezes that summer wavelets greet, And thy liquid notes melt into one, Like hearts of lovers in unison. Yet sweeter far were thy tones that broke The spell of silence when Eden woke, And angel forms on their plumes delayed, To list to thy notes ’mid the garden shade; And, ceasing to sweep their chords of fire, In wonder gazed on thy mimic lyre. Since the eve when the stilly grove was stirred By the voice of God in the garden heard, And the cherubs waved the fiery sword At Eden’s gate ’gainst its banished lord— Since the brow of the guilty Earth was bent ’Neath the sentence of sin’s dread punishment, A spell of woe on thy heart has lain, Sorrow has saddened thy dulcet strain; And the grief of the exile that pines alone Is heard in the breathing of every tone.