O Fanny, life is on the wing, And years, like rivers, glide away: To-morrow may misfortune bring, Then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day And while a lingering kiss I sip, Ah, start not from these ardent arms; Nor think the printure of my lip Will rob your own of any charms. For see, we crush not, though we tread, The cup and primrose. Fanny smiled. Come then and press the cup, she said, Come then and press the primrose wild. 'Now,' cried Stuart, 'I can give you a poem, with just as much love in it, and twice as much kissing.' 'That,' said I, 'would be a treasure indeed.' He then began thus: TO SALLY Dawn with stains of ruddy light, Streaks her grey and fragrant fingers, While the Ethiop foot of night, Envious of my Sally, lingers. Upward poplars, downward willows, Rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkle Leaves of daffodillies, lilies, Pennyroyal, periwinkle. Rosy, balmy, honied, humid, Biting, burning, murmuring kisses, Sally, I will snatch from you, mid Looks demure that tempt to blisses. If your cheek grow cold, my dear, I will kiss it, till it flushes, Or if warm, my raptured tear, Shall extinguish all its blushes. Yes, that dimple is a valley, Where sports many a little true love, And that glance you dart, my Sally, Might melt diamonds into dew love. But while idle thus I chat, I the war of lips am missing. This, this, this, and that, that, that, These make kissing, kissing, kissing. The style of this poem reminded me of Montmorenci, and at the same moment I heard a rustling sound behind me. I started. ''Tis Montmorenci!' cried I. Agitated in the extreme, I turned to see.--It was only a cock-sparrow. 'I deserve the disappointment,' said I to myself, 'for I have never once thought of that amiable youth since I last beheld him. 'Sweetest and noblest of men,' exclaimed I, aloud, 'say, dost thou mourn my mysterious absence? Perhaps the draught of air that I now inhale is the same which thou hast breathed forth, in a sigh for the far distant Cherubina!' 'That cannot well be,' interrupted Stuart, 'or at least the sigh of this unknown must have been packed up in a case, and hermetically sealed, to have come to you without being dispersed on the way.' 'There you happen to be mistaken,' answered I. 'For in the Hermit of the Rock, the heroine, while sitting on the coast of Sardinia, seemed to think it highly probable, that the billow at her feet might be the identical billow which had swallowed up her lover, about a year before, off the coast of Martinique.' 'That was not at all more improbable than Valancourt's theory,' said Stuart. 'What was it?' asked I.