Yet you cannot choose but love her. With a love that passes over Whatsoe’er it cannot praise, For the sake of her sweet ways. Vow that you will never more Such inconstant charms adore, Never more your joy and peace Rest upon her light caprice, All your wise resolves are vain, She will lure you back again; With a single winning smile, Trusting word and childlike wile, Make you feel that love cannot For such trifles be forgot— Looks so bright and tones so sweet, Mortal could not coldly meet; Wild as ever your love burns, And your heart as fondly turns To the wayward, witching creature, As if every changing feature Her impulsive being owned, Howsoe’er it vex and wound, In her gracious mood became One to praise instead of blame. * * * * * LINES. BY L. J. CIST. They may talk as they will of “omnipotent love,” And of lone disappointment’s sad lot— That the image once shrined we can never remove, That the once loved may ne’er be forgot: ’Tis the talk of the silly, the childish, the weak, For a man (though a lover) may still The idol he worships, if faithless, forsake, And the false one forget—_if he will_! They say that the heart which once truly shall love, With love must continue to burn, Though the idol unworthy devotion shall prove, And away from the altar we turn; But ’tis false!—for in man there’s a spirit of hate, When he wills it that spirit to move, And ’twere then all as easy to hate and forget As it were to remember and love! What! think you forever to fetter the mind In the meshes of love’s silken snare, When the strong man awakes from his slumber, to find His enchantments all vanish in air! Ah no! he may mourn that his slumber is o’er, He may weep that the dream was but vain, But he starts up, resolved he will yield him no more To that vision deceitful again. There are monarch’s despotic, throned tyrants, by Fate, And serfs there are millions, by birth; But the slave of the cold and the heartless _coquette_ Is the veriest slave upon earth: And for me, I were sooner the Autocrat’s thrall, Or the lowliest slave in our land, Than the tool of the flirt, at her feet still to fall, And abjectly sue for her hand! * * * * * THE ISLETS OF THE GULF; OR, ROSE BUDD. Ay, now I am in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at home I was in a better place; but Travelers must be content. AS YOU LIKE IT. BY THE AUTHOR OF “PILOT,” “RED ROVER,” “TWO ADMIRALS,” “WING-AND-WING,” “MILES WALLINGFORD,” &c.