You say that you love me, yet are not a lover; As you know not yourself what it is you intend; And right sorry are you, I have chanced to discover, That you’re _less_ than a _lover_, and _more_ than a _friend_! For you know you’re a ranger, And think there is danger, That when you are weary, and wish to depart, _I_, believing you true, May have learned to love you, And you’ll leave me all lonely, without any heart! You have cautioned me well, and have done but your duty; The proverb says truly, “Forearmed, when forewarned,” And though I can boast not of wealth or of beauty, I yield not one feeling, I think would be scorned. When a lover I find Who _knows his own mind_! I will give up my heart in return for his vow; I must have _all_ or _none_, Must be wooed to be won— And now I’ll advise _you_, if you will allow. You at once must restrain all expression of feeling, Not only of words, but of glances and sighs, Lest by some odd mischance the strange secret revealing, Your friendship should prove to be—“love in disguise!” Remember, take care, I bid you beware, For Cupid’s a sly, little mischievous elf, When you think your heart free He may bind it to me, And make you prove constant in spite of yourself. Then, when I have plighted my vows to another, You will sue for one glimpse of old feeling in vain; For when once the bright flame of affection you smother, You never can kindle its brilliance again; I’ll turn proudly away, And will calmly say nay, (While I look on you coldly, not seeming to see,) I esteem, and admire, _That_ is all you desire— Think well of me always, but never love me! Provoking! thus to have my own words turned against me, at the close of these unexpected verses. I saw Edla frequently after this; but my evanescent vows, were never after tolerated even for a moment, and thus, when too late, her prophecy was fulfilled—I loved her. But Edla Fane is now a happy wife and mother, and I—a Bachelor. * * * * * MY STUDY. BY WILLIAM H. C. HOSMER. The gaudy, blabbing and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the night. SHAKSPEARE. I love the circuit of thy narrow bounds While my pale lamp gives light, And, unattended by tumultuous sounds, Presides the holy Night.