Araminta, sweetest, fairest! Solace once of every ill! How I wonder if thou bearest Mivins in remembrance still! If that Friday night is banished Yet from that retentive mind, When the others somehow vanished, And we two were left behind:— When in accents low, yet thrilling, I did all my love declare; Mentioned that I’d not a shilling— Hinted that we need not care: And complacently you listened To my somewhat long address— (Listening, at the same time, isn’t Quite the same as saying Yes). Once, a happy child, I carolled O’er green lawns the whole day through, Not unpleasingly apparelled In a tightish suit of blue:— What a change has now passed o’er me! Now with what dismay I see Every rising morn before me! Goodness gracious, patience me! And I’ll prowl, a moodier Lara, Through the world, as prowls the bat, And habitually wear a Cypress wreath around my hat: And when Death snuffs out the taper Of my Life, (as soon he must), I’ll send up to every paper, “Died, T. Mivins; of disgust.” ISABEL. NOW o’er the landscape crowd the deepening shades, And the shut lily cradles not the bee; The red deer couches in the forest glades, And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea: And ere I rest, one prayer I’ll breathe for thee, The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams: Lady, forgive, that ever upon me Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams Linger on Merlin’s rock, or dark Sabrina’s streams. On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray, And watch far off the glimmering roselight break O’er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake. Oh! who felt not new life within him wake, And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn— (Save one we wot of, whom the cold _did_ make Feel “shooting pains in every joint in turn,”) When first he saw the sun gild thy green shores, Lucerne? And years have past, and I have gazed once more On blue lakes glistening beneath mountains blue; And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before— For all awakened memories of you. Oh! had I had you by my side, in lieu Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry, (Flies in those parts unfortunately do,) Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry, And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley Murray! O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme That ere drew dreamer on to poësy, Since “Peggy’s locks” made Burns neglect his team, And Stella’s smile lured Johnson from his tea— I may not tell thee what thou art to me! But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear, Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be, Would he but “do the duty that lies near,” And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard-rooms, and beer. DIRGE.