MARCH, 1862.

I see her portrait hanging there,

Her face, but only half as fair,

And while I scan it,

Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met —

She smiles. I never can forget

The smile of Janet.

A matchless grace of head and hand,

Can Art pourtray an air more grand?

It cannot — can it?

And then the brow, the lips, the eyes —

You look as if you could despise

Devotion, Janet.

I knew her as a child, and said

She ought to have inhabited

A brighter planet:

Some seem more meet for angel wings

Than Mother Nature's apron strings,—

And so did Janet.

She grew in beauty, and in pride,

Her waist was slim, and once I tried,

In sport, to span it,

At Church, with only this result,

They threatened with quicunque vult

Both me and Janet.

She fairer grew, till Love became

In me a very ardent flame,

With Faith to fan it:

Alas, I played the fool, and she...

The fault of both lay much with me,

But more with Janet.

For Janet chose a cruel part,—

How many win a tender heart

And then trepan it!

She left my bark to swim or sink,

Nor seemed to care — and yet, I think,

You liked me, Janet.

The old old tale! you know the rest —

The heart that slumbered in her breast

Was soft as granite:

Who breaks a heart, and then omits

To gather up its broken bits,

Is heartless, Janet.

I'm wiser now — for when I curse

My Fate, a voice cries, “Bad or worse

You must not ban it:

Take comfort, you are quits, for if

You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff,

Why so does Janet.”