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."