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The world was now before them, they enter'd in its coil, Like the serpent's rainbow circles, and with as deadly

spoil; He wedded with another, I know not of his bride, I only speak of her who grew in girlhood at his side.

Her hair was glistening blackness, a sort of golden gloom, Like sunshine on the raven's wing, a softness and a bloom ; Dark, like the nightfall, on her cheek the dusky eyelash lay, But the sweet eyes beneath were blue as April or as day.

Her cheek was pale as moonlight, that melancholy light,
When the moon is at her palest, grown weary of the night;
Pale, sad, and onward looking, as if the future threw
The shadow of the coming hours it felt before it knew.

My God! the utter wretchedness that waiteth on the heart, That nurses an unconscious hope, to see that hope depart; That owns not to itself it loves, until that love is known, By feeling in the wide, wide world so utterly alone.

No face seem'd pleasant to her sight, one image linger’d

there, The echo of one only voice was on the haunted air. Speak not of other sorrow, life knoweth not such pain, As that within the stricken heart, which loves, and loves

in vain.

Yet she, too, at the altar gave up her wan cold hand,
That shudder'd as they circle it with an unwelcome band;
Ah! crime and misery both, the heart—on such a die to set,
The veriest mockery of love is striving to forget.

She stands before her mirror, it is her wedding day,
But she hath fung aside in haste her desolate array;
Down on the ground her bridal wreath is dash'd in bitter

scorn

That hour's impassion'd agony, alas ! it must be borne. And long years are before her, long, weary, wasting years; Though tears grow heavy on the lash, she must suppress

those tears ; The past must be forgotten, and 'tis the past that gives The truest and the loveliest light in which the future lives. Such is a common history, in this our social state, Where destiny and nature contend in woman's fate; To waste her best affections, to pine, to be forgot, To droop beneath an outward smile-such is a woman's lot.

I AM COME BUT YOUR SPIRITS TO RAISE.

BY THE LADY E. S. WORTLEY.

How d’ye do-how d’ye do, my sweet Jane,

I have volumes to tell you, indeed
I'm enchanted to see you again-

What a life we young ladies do lead !
To be sure, since your poor father's death,

You've been locked up and blocked up at home,
Like a sword left to rust in the sheath,

Like a plant left to pine in the gloom.
After all, I'm a bit of a blue,
As

you fail not I hope to remarkAnd half a philosopher too,

Since I know plants can't thrive in the dark !

Any more than young ladies can bloom,

From society's bright haunts apart, In the dull cloudy climate of home,

Where they're pierced by cold ennui's vile dart.

Now

your hair always hangs out of curl, All unconscious of riband or wreath ; You are grown quite a different girl,

Since your poor gouty father's sad death.

But I'm come now your spirits to raise,

And to cheer you, and soothe you awhile ; Shall we talk of balls, operas, and plays,

What, no look, and no word, and no smile?

Ah! I know what you're dying to hear,

Well, you shall hear all, all that I know, I came but your spirits to cheer,

Which seem dreadfully nervous and low ! Dearest creature! alone for your sake,

I've gone every where lately, in truth,
And I'll grant you that Lord Arthur Lake

Is a dear irresistible youth !
Out of love to my Jane I have tried
To encourage him

every where, still ; And, indeed, truth to say, on his side

You must know there's no lack of good will.

But I speak to him still in your praise,

For these men are such creatures, you know, When removed from the world's busy ways,

They forget us at once-'tis still so!

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