THE SONNET.

I MET an odd engraving the other day in the print-stores. Quite a simple affair-a garden-a bower-a lady-that's all. She is, of course, holding a letter in her hand, which, it is pretty evident, she has just been reading. The artist has entitled that print "THE SONNET," but why or wherefore does not appear. He has given no farther explanation of what he intended-an omission which vexed me not a little, as I am always curious about such matters, and like to discover, if I can, at least the meaning of any composition I may have spent my time in examining. Both the drawing and the engraving are exceedingly well done. 66 'Oh, the opaque darkness," said I to myself, as I laid the print aside, and left the store," that rests upon that sonnet! What can it mean?" I was sadly puzzled, and did not get entirely rid of the subject until I was rid of the following verses. I think I have hit the artist's intention, and, therefore publish the lines for the benefit of all poor wights who may be similarly situated with myself, while scrutinizing the print I have attempted to describe.

Fanny, in her bower seated,
By the rosy zephyrs fann'd,

To herself these words repeated,

Edward's letter in her hand:

Hang the fellow !—fie upon it!

What am I to do or say ?

Here this silly, saucy sonnet,

Bids me name the marriage-day!"

H

Then she sigh'd, and pluck'd a flower,

Tore its leaves apart, and then

Nothing said, for near an hour,

Save "Heigho!-these men-these men!" Bridal bells-the pastor's mission—

Friends and kindred-hopes and fearsCrowded on her mental vision,

Till her heart dissolved in tears!

Simple girl!--but see, she raises

Her sweet face-all sunshine now;

Marvel not at lover's praises

Gaze upon that heavenly brow! Now she parts her flowing tresses,

Smiles, and reads the letter o'er,

To the winds her love confesses,

Which she ne'er has done before.

List! she speaks again!—and hear her:

"Edward I am all thine own!

Can a passion be sincerer

Than that breathed for thee alone?"

Edward sought the yielding maiden,

Pressed her to his heart for life

And, with every blessing laden,

They became soon-man and wife!

Do my readers ask, "Sir Poet,

Wherefore weave your web of song?"

To instruct you-and I'll show it;
Mark me well, ye wooing throng:

To the fair you'd marry—better

Write than speak-but write in time—

And be sure to pen the letter

Not in prose, but melting-rhyme!

THE DISMISSED.

"I suppose she was right in rejecting my suit,

But why did she kick me down stairs ?"

Halleck's Discarded.

THE wing of my spirit is broken,
My day-star of hope has declined;

For a month not a word have I spoken,
That's either polite or refined.

My mind's like the sky in bad weather

When mist-clouds around us are curled:

And, viewing myself altogether,

I'm the veriest wretch in the world.

I wander about like a vagrant,

I spend half my time in the street; My conduct's improper and flagrant, For I quarrel with all that I meet.

My dress too is wholly neglected,

My hat I pull over my brow, And I look like a fellow suspected Of wishing to kick up a row.

At home I'm an object of horror

To boarder and waiter and maid;

But my landlady views me with sorrow, When she thinks of the bill that's unpaid.

Abroad my acquaintances flout me,

The ladies cry,

"Bless us, look there!"

And the little boys cluster about me,

And sensible citizens stare.

One says,

"He's a victim to Cupid,"

Another, "His conduct's too bad,"
A third, "He is awfully stupid,"

A fourth, "He is perfectly mad,"
And then I am watched like a bandit,
My friends with me all are at strife—

By heaven, no longer I'll stand it,

But quick put an end to my life!