Of Milton, Eve is characterless, till she hath fallen, and Spenser’s Amoret sits in the very “lap of womanhood.” Need we call Byron’s Medora weak, because she is supremely tender and feminine? Weakness creates eccentricities, and she had none. Gulnare hath character, and we recoil from her, as did the Corsair. But enough—it is the “story without an end,” to be read from the time that Eve first became a type of womanhood, down to the time when her sex shall realize all that of which she was prophetic. * * * * * TO A BELLE WHO IS NOT A BLUE BELLE. BY MRS. E. F. ELLET. Fanny, in vain you’ve thrown your net; Your beau is disenchanted; You said, how can I e’er forget? That you no “Rymer” wanted. And said you not, my saucy belle, For all my genius rare, Although you liked me passing well, My “Hobbes” you could not bear? You say a “Spenser” you admire, And “Glover’s” works delight in; But should your eyes behold a “Prior” Your wits away ’twould frighten, For why? you ne’er could bear a “Hood.” “Cotton”’s your detestation; You place a “Locke” on what is “Good” Nor give your “Cook” a ration. You asked me t’other day to dine, And if I’m not mistaken, Told me—’twas when you “dropped the line”— You knew not “Hogg” from “Bacon.” I brought you down a noble “Bird,” My gift you did not praise; And thought my “Blackwood,” so I heard, Was only fit to blaze! Things hard as “Flint” and “Steele” you hate, You wish no lore to learn; Your “Pope” you excommunicate, And laugh to find me “Sterne.” In rings and seals your “Goldsmith”’s fair, You must confess, as could be; And yet that “Livy” is, you swear, No better than she should be! “Moore” would I say to you! Ah me! O’er “Little” you grow cold; You say that “Lamb” should quartered be, And “Young” you say is old. Your “Johnson” you a “Walker” make, So merciless your ravage; Though Crusoe took such pains to take You throw away—a “Savage.” For “Sparks” you will no pity show: My love meets no returns; Then why should still my bosom glow For one who laughs at “Burns?” Why to a belle who likes not “Home,” Nor will my cares divide, Should I a pensive suitor come, And bear an “Akenside?” * * * * * SONG—“LOVE’S TIME IS NOW.” BY PARK BENJAMIN. Oh, why delay the happy time, The hours glide swiftly by, And oft we see a sombre cloud Obscure the fairest sky; Then while the morn is rosy bright Accept my earnest vow, And oh, believe me, dearest maid, Love’s time, love’s time is now.