IN THE MIRADOR.

ALL the night I am weeping;

But with the dawn's bright beauty,
I deck myself with blossoms.
All the night I am weeping.

All the night I am weeping.
I lean far out my balcony;
Below there's one that passes.
All the night I am weeping.
All the night I am weeping.
Beside me, in her beauty,
Fair Zaide sits a-singing.
All the night I am weeping.
All the night I am weeping.
The rose from out my bosom
I lightly fling unto him.
All the night I am weeping.

All the night I am weeping.
Fair Zaide casts him lilies;
He loves the white flower best.
All the night I am weeping.

"PRAY FOR ME, SWEETHEARTS!" WRAPPED in a mantle black as night, Sweet Doña Inés passed me by; My heart was wounded till it bled, With passion's dart from out her eye: "I am dead; pray for me, sweethearts! "

Upon the Prado, 'midst the crowd,
Sweet Inés passed me once again;
She sighed, I hid myself away
Far from the prying eyes of men:
"I am dead; pray for me, sweethearts!"
Beside the rose hedge twice and thrice-
The nightingales with song aflame-
I brushed her perfumed, purple robe,
But dared not even breathe her name:
"I am dead; pray for me, sweethearts!"
She sits behind her lattice close;
I pass below, I dare not stay,
Yet like a prisoner on his rounds

I come again without delay:

"I am dead; pray for me, sweethearts! "

A WEEK, A YEAR, I 'LL LOVE A DAY.

I'LL love for a week, I'll love for a day,
I'll love for a year, but not alway.
Alphonse my love he doth bespeak:
Dear heart, in vain he shall not seek;
I'll love him for a week.

Base man, he turns from me away,
For a week's love he will not stay;
I'll love him for a day.

MY FIRST LOVE IT SHALL BE MY LAST.

I WAS SO young and-oh, believed;
All hope within my breast has past.
I did not dream to be deceived:
My first love it shall be my last.

How can I bear the coming years,
The coming years of grief and gloom!
My only comfort in my tears,
My sole relief the silent tomb.
They say that I shall love again,
That grief like mine will hasten fast;
To comfort them I feign a smile-
My first love it shall be my last.

I seek the vale where last we met.
The roses were in bloom that day;
The roses they are blooming yet,
But love has stole itself away.
If one could only die at will,
I'd die before the roses past;
But death it seeks a happy heart-
My first love it shall be my last.

"Ah! thin, Eileen, don't turn 'way yer iligant face. Sure I don't praise yer eyes an' their beauty alone, For yer soul plays in glory all over the space

Of yer nate, rounded cheeks. Thin yer mouth - och !
I moan

For the want of a word to describe the quare charm
That comes into me heart whin its glory I scan;
An' och! Eily, yer hair an' yer taperin' arm,
Sure they ne'er were excelled since the world began.

"An' yer figure an' form - thin begor! one should peep At the art works in Rome to behold thim surpassed. Thin yer bosom - och! murther! what language can leap

To the call of me tongue for to paint it?

'T was cast In mistake for a goddess above, so I think. And yer-murther! me lips are now dumb for to say What I think of yer foot. Oh! don't blush so like pink,

Eileen Conner - yet you look so much purtier that way."

"Och! thin, Terence McHayd'n, yer blarnified tongue,
Like the bard of Dunloe as he sings to th' past,
Would deludher the birds from the bushes that sung
Round the old fairy moat all the summer. Sure fast
Is me heart set ag'inst honeyed words, for no girl
Could live on swate, ranterin' praises alone,
An' no doubt you 've been wanderin' round in a whirl
Sayin' iligant things to the girls of Athlone."

Here fair Eileen made motion to hasten away

In mock anger that made her look ten times as sweet,
But her hand Terry seized, on his lips passion's say,
As he flung himself ardently down at her feet.
"Oh! thin, Eileen, be mine, darling Eily! I've love
Sure for you, an' an iligant farm in me mindt,
An'-" Here Eileen fell into his arms like a dove.
“Och! Terry, you should come long ago to the p'int.”
Daniel Spillane.

Cupid Rearmed.

PAINTERS, dip the brush anew,
Retouch the ancient masters!
Ring new jingles in your lays,
O choir of poetasters!

Cupid, merry little god

(His love-lore then was narrow), Roamed the world in days of eld With treacherous bow and arrow.

Many a heart he wounded sore,
And many a dart went flying
Far beyond the throbbing mark
And left a lone soul sighing.

Until, in dire disgrace, he found,

By youths and maidens banished, From east to west, from north to south, His occupation vanished.

"Not Suited to the Purpose."
"This pencil is too strong for me."—Lewis Carroll.

THE editor struggled in vain with his pen,
He made a beginning again and again,
In only one way would it willingly move;

And then said abruptly, “I must be in love!”
Yes; this must be why one fair face of all faces

Between him and his "copy" continually crept, Presented itself in the smallest of spaces,

And smiled at him out of the clouds when he slept.