NUMBER III.

1. When Love was a child, and went idling round,

'Mong flowers the whole summer's day, One morn in the valley a bower he found,

So sweet, it allured him to stay.

O’erhead, from the trees, hung a garland fair,

A fountain ran darkly beneath'Twas Pleasure that hung the bright flowers up there;

Love knew it, and jump'd at the wreath.

III.

But Love didn't know-and at his weak years

What urchin was likely to know ?-
That Sorrow had made of her own salt tears

That fountain which murmur'd below.

IV. He caught at the wreath—but with too much haste,

As boys when impatient will doIt fell in those waters of briny taste,

And the flowers were all wet through.

V.

Yet this is the wreath he wears night and day,

And, though it all sunny appears
With Pleasure's own lustre, each leaf, they say,

Still tastes of the Fountain of Tears.

SAY, WHAT SHALL BE OUR SPORT TO-DAY?

Sicilian Air.

I.
Say, what shall be our sport to-day?

There's nothing on earth, in sea or air,