But boyhood's sorrows, though they leave Their shadows on the spirit's dial, Cannot by their deep spell bereave

They herald but a darker trial; And such 'tis mine e'en now to bear In the sweet radiance of thine eye, And 'tis the wildness of despair

To paint vain love that cannot die.

Yet thus it must be-like the flower,
That sheds amid the dusky night
The rays it drank at midday hour,
My spirit pours abroad its light,
When all the beauty and the bloom,
The blessedness of love hath gone,
And left the darkness of the tomb,
Upon the glory of its throne.

The hour hath come-it cannot part-
Deterring pride-one hurried deed
Hath fixed its seal upon my heart,
And ever it must throb and bleed,
Till life, and love, and anguish o'er,
The spirit soars to its first birth,
And meets on heaven's own peaceful shore
The heart it loved too well on earth.

FANNY WILLOUGHBY.

BY WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON.

"I LOVE thee, Fanny Willoughby,
And that's the why, ye see,
I woo thee, Fanny Willoughby,
And cannot let thee be;

I sing for thee, I sigh for thee,

And O! you may depend on't, I'll weep for thee, I'll die for thee, And that will be the end on't.

"I love thy form, I worship it,
To me it always seems
As if it were the counterfeit

Of some I've seen in dreams;
It makes me feel as if I had
An angel by my side,
And then I think I am so bad,
You will not be my bride.

"I love the golden locks that glow
About that brow of thine;
I always thought them so and so,'
But now, they are divine;

They're like an Alpine torrent's rush-
The finest under heaven;

They're like the bolted clouds, that flush
The sky of summer's even.

"I love thy clear and hazel eyeThey say the blue is fairer ; And I confess that formerly

I thought the blue the rarer;
But when I saw thine eye so clear,
Though perfectly at rest,

I did kneel down, and I did swear
The hazel was the best.

"I love thy hand so pale and soft, The which, in days 'lang syne,' Ye, innocent as trusting, oft

Would softly clasp in mine; I thought it sure was chiseled out Of marble by the geniuses, The which the poets rant about, The virgins and the Venuses.

"I love the sounds that from thy lip Gush holily and free,

As rills that from their caverns slip, And prattle to the sea;

The melody for aye doth steal

To hearts by sorrow riven, And then I think and then I feel That music comes from heaven.

"Now listen, Fanny Willoughby,
To what I cannot keep,

My days ye rob of jollity,
My nights ye rob of sleep;

And if ye don't relent, why I

Believe you will me kill;

For passion must have vent, and I

Will kill myself I will."

"Twas thus, when love had made me mad ;

For Fanny Willoughby,

I told my tale, half gay, half sad,

To Fanny Willoughby;

And Fanny looked as maiden would
When love her heart did burn,
And Fanny sighed as maiden should,
And murmured a return.

And so I wooed Fan Willoughby-
A maiden like a dove,
And so I won Fan Willoughby-

The maiden of my love;

And though sad years have passed since that, And she is in the sky,

I never, never can forget

Sweet Fanny Willoughby.

I'LL TRY MY LUCK AGAIN.

BY H. F. HARRINGTON.

WHY should we grieve when trouble lowers, And steep our days in wo?

Oh rather gaily pass life's hours,

In pleasure as they flow!

Oh not one tear shall dim my eye,
Though life be fraught with pain!
I'll bid the past a kind "Good-by!"
And try my luck again!

I'll court dame Fortune's soft caress,
Each flattering lure display;
And if my votive prayer she bless,
I'll dance life's hours away.
But if she do not smile on me,

And all my prayers are vain-
I'll laugh and quaff in merry glee,
And-try my luck again!

I'll seek a friend where honour glows-
Unswayed by falsehood's wile,

To cheer my heart when damped by woes,
Smile with me when I smile;

But if he prove a heartless one-
A scoffer at my pain,

I'll bid the treacherous knave begone,
And-try my luck again!