RECOLLECTIONS OF A FADED BEAUTY.

AH! I remember, when I was a girl,

How my hair naturally used to curl,

And how my aunt four yards of net would pucker,
And call the odious thing "Diana's tucker."
I hated it, because although, you see,

It did for her, it did'nt do for me.
(Popkins said I should wear a low corsage,
But this I know was merely badinage.)
I recollect the gaieties of old-

Ices when hot, and punch when we were cold!
Race-balls, and county-balls, and balls where you,
For seven shillings, got dance and supper too.
Oh! I remember all the routs and plays-
"But words are idle," as Lord Byron says;
And so am I, and therefore can spare time,
To put my recollections into rhyme.

I recollect the man who did declare
When I was at the fair, myself was fair:
(I had it in my album for three years,
And often looked, and shed delicious tears.)
I didn't fall in love, however, then,
Because I never saw that man again,

And I remember Popkins-ah! too well!
And all who once in love with Chloë fell.
They called me Chloë, for they said my grace
Was nymph-like, as was also half my face.
My mouth was wide, but then I had a smile
Which might a demon of its tears beguile,—
As Captain Popkins said, or rather swore,
He liked me, (ah! my Popkins!) all the more.
He couldn't bear a little mouth; for when

It laughed, 'twas like a long slit in a pen;
Or button-hole stretched on too big a button;
Or little cut for gravy in boiled mutton.
(Popkins was clever)—but I must proceed
More regularly, that my friends may read.
I didn't marry, for I couldn't get
A man I liked; I havn't got one yet;
But I had handsome lovers by the score:
Alas! alas! I always sighed for more!

TRUE LOVE.

To look upon the fairy one, who stands
Before you, with her young hair's shining bands,
And rosy lips half parted; — and to muse,

-

-

Not on the features which you now peruse,
Not on the blushing bride, - but look beyond

Unto the aged wife, nor feel less fond:
To feel, that while thy arm can strike them dead,
No breathing soul shall harm that gentle head:
To know, that none with fierce and sudden strife
Shall tear thee from her, save with loss of life:
To keep thee but to one, and let that one
Be to thy home, what warmth is to the sun;
To gaze and find no change, when time hath made
Youth's dazzling beauty darken into shade,
But fondly - firmly — cling to her, nor fear
The fading touch of life's declining year:
This is true love, when it hath found a rest
In the deep home of manhood's faithless breast.

MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME.

I HAVE tasted each varied pleasure,
And drank of the cup of delight ;
I have danced to the gayest measure
In the halls of dazzling light.

I have dwelt in a blaze of splendor,
And stood in the courts of kings;

I have snatched at each toy that could render
More rapid the flight of Time's wings.
But vainly I've sought for joy or peace,
In the life of light and shade;

And I turn with a sigh to my own dear home-
That home where my childhood played.

When jewels are sparkling round me,

And dazzling with their rays

I weep for ties that bound me
In life's first early days.

I sigh for one of the sunny hours
Ere day was turned to night;

For one of my nosegays of fresh wild flowers,
Instead of those jewels bright.

I weep when I gaze on the scentless buds
Which never can bloom or fade;~

And I turn with a sigh to those gay green fields -
The home where my childhood played.

Yes, yes,

MUSIC'S POWER.

HAVE you not heard, in music's sound,
Some chords which o'er your heart
First fling a moment's magic round,
Then silently depart?

But when the echo on the air

Roused by that simple lay,

It leaves a world of feeling there

We cannot chase away.

—a sound hath power to bid them come

Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home.

Yes, yes,

When sitting in your silent home

You gaze around and weep,
Or call to those who cannot come,
Nor wake from dreamless sleep;
Those chords, so oft as you bemoan
"The distant and the dead,"
Bring dimly back the fancied tone

Of some sweet voice that's fled!

-a sound hath power to bid them come --

Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home.

And when, amid the festal throng,

You are, or would be gay

And seek to 'wile, with dance and song,

Your sadder thoughts away,

They strike those chords, and smiles depart,
As, rushing o'er your soul,

The untold feelings of the heart

Yes, yes,

Awake and spurn control!

a sound hath power to bid them comeYouth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home.

MARY HOWITT.

GENTLE, pure-hearted poetess-we cannot call thee Mistress Howitt!-albeit thou art the wedded wife of a poet, worthy to bestow his name and the matronly title upon thee. But thy address should agree with the sweet, unpretending character of thy verse, which, like the Violet, is sought the more for its modest simplicity; and so we shall continue to speak of thee by that name, so dear to all lovers of true, heart-touching poetry-Mary Howitt.

We think Mary Howitt must always have been poetical. There is an ease in all her productions, and a playfulness of fancy in many of them which could never have been gained by study. She has a warm love of nature, and of children-feelings that imbue the soul of a woman with the spirit of poesy-and then she is pious, tenderly, sincerely pious; and the subjects she chooses seem to harmonize with the tenor of her thoughts, like household words in a loving family. She has, also, a taste for the mystical, just sufficient to throw an air of romance over the every-day scenes of life, and give to the old traditions of fairy lore, that reality which makes its teachings

"A lesson not to be unlearned."

The poems of Mary Howitt have chiefly appeared in the periodicals, or in works in which she has been associated