And musing here alone, I long to send
To bring the truant hither;

For while I live, the memory of my friend

With me shall never wither.

And was it well

my love to spurn

With cold neglect or quiet scorn?
Found'st thou in jest, or song, or wine,
A heart so warm, so true as mine?
And yet, my friend, I blame not thee,
Others in love may equal me;

I blame not thee, I blame my foolish pride,
Which would not stoop to sue,

Nor owe to prayers the love, which, though denied,
I only thought my due.

We are not what we were before,
My love remains, but thine is o'er;
Fortune marks out high state for thee,
A hard and stormy life for me;
But still as mournful feelings move,
I'll think of thee and of thy love :
And if instead of fortune's favouring ray,
O'er thee the storm should lower,
I will be there, to help thee on thy way
With love's untiring power.

T. D. C. R.

MIRA'S TEARS.

I read her softly-beaming eye

I echoed back each tell-tale sigh

I told my love in accents wild

Trembling, she blushed, and blushing, smiled.

Say, Mira, what soft spell had power
Oft to recall that tender hour?

Did maiden blush, or witching smile
My light and open heart beguile ?

Oh no! in vain that smile had played,
Or blush the wound of love betrayed,
Had not I seen the tear-drop start
And pledge the homage of the heart.

Oh! I can feed upon that look,
Embodied still in memory's book;
The tear a chastening shade did lend,
Wherewith the brilliant smile might blend.

As light from shadows claim relief,
So real joy from seeming grief-
Ye little know a lover's tear,
Who say that look did sadness wear.

As melancholy clouds by night
Make Cynthia beam with braver light;
So hope, and love, and gladness borrow
Meet contrast from these signs of sorrow,

Then claim not, grief, that pearly dew
Than honied eloquence more true;
Its rhetoric did our loves express,
And that to me was happiness.

The watching widow weeps for joy,
While bending o'er her sleeping boy-
Grief does not bid that tear to flow-
For what has joy to do with woe?

O then concede the humid eye
To love, and gladsome sympathy;
For so may joy reclaim the tear
Usurped by sorrow, pain, and fear.

CONFESSIONS OF A COMPOSITOR.

For twenty-five years I have been a man of types. For once let me be heard in my own name, to disburden myself of some few notions, querulous they may be, but very candid, which it would really be a relief to me to express. Is it too much that I ask? I that have silently and patiently toiled to set up the reputation of so many authors-I that have pointed so many facetious paragraphs -I that have stopped so many absurdities-I that have so long been at the head of a great colonial compartment -I that am Hyphen's priest to unite so many couples of "wedded words"-I that am the fellow-craftsman of Dr. Franklin, and armour-bearer to any knight of the pen that pleases have I not a right to the welcomings of my readers if I speak for myself? My readers? Yes, certainly, mine. For how could any one ever have been a reader of the works of the great authors in my connexion, had not my labours come between those of the thoughtseller and the thought-buyer? Among that great class of men who unravel what is doubtful, fix what is transitory, and impart to all what was monopolized, I humbly rank myself. The fount I bear rule over is, I dare swear, as rich and romantic as that Grecian one, which my last poetical elève called Helicon-(the reviewer, bye the bye, whom I sent after him, said Helicon was no more a

fountain, than Primrose hill is a flower bed.) Men of my craft are paramount now-a-days, because they are indispensable. If we were to strike, (upon the principle I have seen suggested of τύπος ἀντίτυπος) greater consternation would ensue than was brought about last year by the refractory workmen in the yards of those "wandering giant-masons," Messrs. Grissell and Peto. Society would be unhinged. Clubs and circulating libraries would be ruined. England would not know what to do with itself, All over Europe the balance of power would be disturbed; for what does it now rest upon in this leaden age, but the cases of the great typothetary class.* In truth we are the body that ought to be toasted as the source of all legitimate (i. e. blue-book) power.

Just consider the process. A little lead and antimony are poured into the "matrix" then a shake-then time to cool-then out it comes a type. Tumble it into a box, and when some dozens of boxes are full, give them to me; reach me my stool, put my coat on the peg, and then you see me ready (till dinner-time) to go on wielding weapons to which thunder-bolts, aerolites, bullets, dollars, postagestamps, are nothing; and thus furnished I commence a grand and practical exposition of "the philosophy of forms." Presently there come knocking at my "thinkingshop," jostling in all inky, like bees leg-deep in pollen, all manner of schemers, rhymers, book-worms, maw-worms, anti-corn-law-worms, critics, examiners, orators," constant readers," "vindexes," "lovers of truth," circular-mongers, blue-stockings, silver-fork-ists, invalids from the Spas, mandarin-slayers from the East India and China Service,

* A friend at Eton suggests that the most potent man in Europe, Prince Metternich, was in this way the "plumbeus auster" against Napoleon. But I believe it was the "mala ambitio," much more than the diplomatic press.

Laputians from the Reform Club, meal-tub-plotters from Exeter Hall,

Embryos and idiots, eremites and friars

Black, white, and grey, with all their trumpery,—

all seeking for somebody to let the world know what they know, what they think, and what they want.

With a noble and truly liberal impartiality I give them all my patronage. I set free the frail things "bound in by inky blots and rotten parchment bonds." With an unerring hand, guided by that yʊxη STOXASTIKη, which I am told is so Platonic a gift that it must needs be mine, I hit upon what every one in his turn wants for the expression of his feelings. With an eye in a fine frenzy rolling over my various compartments, I hasten to give to all their imaginings, a "local habitation and a form."

What indeed is human thought worth, till it comes under my hands? hands? What would become of all the world's theories, arguments, and sentiments, were it not for me, and such as me? Doubtless they would perish like snow-flakes upon the water. They would be lost as irretrievably as the MS. plays of poor Massinger, which the sibiline kitchen-maid took wantonly to singe Mr. -'s fowls with. Up and down the earth float the best and the worst of notions, till I take them in hand; and thenceforth they are as indomitable as the pert little cocks with bits of lead at the bottom, which say to bigotted children "knock us down if you can." Oh the majestic triumph of art and universalism, when the Eton Bureau has a better chance of immortality than ever Horace had!

On this topic I could say much, from the fulness of my heart: but I have said enough to assert the credit of my profession. I now proceed to give to the literary