Now he swears you wear loads of false hair,
And I vow to him, love, 'tis your own,
And assure him that sorrow and care

Have now mixed some grey hairs with the brown.

He protests, too, you rouged—so I say

That if ever you did, you don't now—

For your colour is quite gone away,

And like parchment your cheek and your brow.

He declares your made up in all ways—

That your eyebrows are black mole-skin strips; That your arm a strange whiteness betraysThat you stain both your lashes and lips.

And he says 66 women ne'er should use art," (And I own that I think that is true); Then I ask-ever taking your part

Why, now, what are poor women to do?"

My sweet Jane's not so young as she was;
Thirty-two she'll see never again;
And beauty and freshness will pass—
Ay-even from my exquisite Jane !"

Then I tell him your mind's the same still
As it was at vain, giggling eighteen,
And say, if I have judgment or skill,
'Tis as childish as e'er it hath been.

In short, I do all that I can

To make him still love my own Jane; But, alas! so provoking is man,

I do fear 'tis my heart he would gain.

But I never will leave him alone,

Till I make him adore as I ought;

For I see you're grown all skin and bone,

Though such vile men are scarce worth a thought.

This inconstancy's horrid indeed,

I wonder from whence it can rise;

(Oh! it makes my heart ache, love, and bleed,
To look on your dull, heavy eyes.)

'Tis a proof of men's follies and crimes,
Sure we women are woefully blind;
And a sign, too, I think, of the times,
"Tis the mode now to alter one's mind!

Well, good bye, now good bye, I am gone,
I came but your spirits to raise ;
But Lord Arthur is coming at one,
To show me his new team of bays.

And, oh dear! I must fly; for beside

I must order my new habit home, For Lord Arthur with me is to ride

Before three-would that you, too, could come.

Good bye, then, good bye, my dear pet,

To the Opera to-night I must go;

Would you lend me your sweet turquoise set?
You don't want such fine things now you know.

Well, good bye, I'll come shortly again,
For a friendship like mine ne'er decays;

I do wish I could longer remain—
I but came just your spirits to raise !

THE BRIDAL GIFT.

BY MRS. FAIRLIE.

EMILY F. was the daughter of a lady who, since her widowhood, had seen much adversity. Mrs. F. was of good family, and her deceased husband had been highly respected and eminent in his profession. Many of their children had fallen victims to consumption, and there now only remained three of a once numerous family: Emily, Charles, and Edward, were their names. They were all remarkable for personal beauty; Emily's was of the most feminine and delicate character. Her hair was of a light and glossy brown, and peculiarly abundant; her eyes deep blue, her cheeks faintly tinted with pink, but her lips were of the brightest hue. Such were her charms; and the portrait of her, which was painted when she was on the eve of marriage with one to whom she was most fondly attached, conveys but an inadequate idea of their perfection. Albert was but three years her senior, and was in every respect a suitable match for her. His parents already loved her as their own child, and all who knew them began to think that for once the course of true love must run smooth. The wedding day was fixed, and Emily took a natural and innocent delight in looking at the bridal apparel, and simple but elegant accessories to a female toilet, which were gifts from her present and future relatives Albert was not wealthy, and consequently diamonds pearls, and rubies, India shawls and costly robes were not there: nor did the happy girl for one moment regret their

absence; and her lover, when he saw her glossy ringlets and fair and polished brow, thought plumes and a tiara would almost mar their beauty.

Eagerly did Emily gaze from her chamber window at the hour when Albert usually arrived, and gladly did she hail him when he came. Bright visions of years of bliss floated before them both, and they were never weary of painting their future home. Alas! their hopes were doomed to be unfulfilled. Albert was seized with sudden illness. Medical aid, and the attentions of fond relatives and of an adoring girl were unavailing; and, on the day previous to that which should have shone on her nuptials, Emily had to deplore the death of her lover.

I need not try to paint the anguish of her feelings. Vainly should I waste words to describe that which all can well imagine. Yet Emily sorrowed not as one without hope;" she had the blessed conviction that her Albert's virtues had secured to him an eternal abode in those happy regions where there is no parting, where tears cease to flow, and where hearts ache not. Time soothed the violence of her sorrow, but she felt no less than at the first how totally irreparable was her loss. She spoke not of her departed Albert, but her thoughts were ever with him.

It was about two years after the death of her lover that Emily became acquainted with Lord L. He was a young man of prepossessing manners and appearance, and possessed of a large fortune. His heart was soon bestowed on the gentle and lovely girl, and he paid her many kind and unobtrusive attentions. Lord L. was totally unacquainted with Emily's previous engagement, and attributed to the alteration in her fortune that depression which arose from

disappointed affection. Emily believed that he was acquainted with her sad story, and was grateful for his delicate and silent regard; but she knew not the nature or depth of his feelings. She was therefore much surprised, and really grieved, when he one day avowed his love, and besought her to become his bride. She burst into tears, and for some moments was unable to speak. At length, she was about to reply, but a visitor was announced, and ere she had time to say more than "I will write to you," a giddy, fashionable acquaintance entered the room, who exhibited no intention of a speedy departure. Consequently, in a brief time Lord L. took his leave, wearied by the frivolity, which would at any period have annoyed him, but which now very quickly exhausted his patience.

It was nearly an hour ere Emily bade adieu to the intruder; she then flew to her mother, whom slight indisposition had confined to her apartment. On naming to her the proposal she had received, Mrs. F. exclaimed, "how fortunate, how delightful!"

"Delightful?" echoed her daughter; "my dearest mother, I do not understand these expressions."

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Why, what parent would not rejoice at her daughter having engaged the affections of so amiable, agreeable, and in every way charming a young man as Lord L.?"

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Nay, you should pity him," said Emily, "since I believe him sincere in his professions of regard, and he will consequently feel much disappointment when I shall tell him how utterly impossible it is that I should ever marry."

"And why, Emily, should you never marry?"