"Will this do?"--"No;--that hair of gold, That brow of snow, that eye of splendour, Cannot redeem the mien so cold, The air so stiff, so quite _un-tender_." "This then?"--"Far worse! _Can_ lips like these Thus smile as though they asked the kiss?-- Thinks she that e'en such eyes can please, Beaming--there is no word--like _this?_" "Look on that singer at the harp, Of her you cannot speak thus--ah, no!" --"Her! why she's _formed_ of flat and sharp-- I doubt not she's a fine soprano!" "The next?"--"What, she who lowers her eyes From sheer mock-modesty--so pert, So doubtful-mannered?--I despise Her, and all like her--she's a _Flirt!_ "And this is why my spleen's above The power of words;--'tis that they can Make the vile semblance be to Love Just what the Monkey is to Man! "But yonder I, methinks, can trace One _very_ different from these-- Her features speak--her form is Grace Completed by the touch of Ease! "That opening lip, that fine frank eye Breathe Nature's own true gaiety-- So sweet, so rare _when thus_, that I Gaze on't with joy, nay ecstacy! "For when _'tis_ thus, you'll also see That eye still richer gifts express-- And on that lip there oft will be A sighing smile of tenderness! "Yes! here a matchless spirit dwells E'en for that lovely dwelling fit!-- I gaze on her--my bosom swells With feelings, thoughts,----oh! exquisite! "That such a being, noble, tender, So fair, so delicate, so dear, Would let one love her, and _befriend_ her!-- --Ah, yes, _my_ Chosen One is here!" _London Magazine_. * * * * * TRAVELLING ON THE CONTINENT.