When Laura sings young hearts away,
    I’m deafer than the deep;
  When Leonora goes to play,
    I sometimes go to sleep;
  When Mary draws her white gloves out,
    I never dance, I vow: 
  “Too hot to kick one’s heels about!”—­
    I’m not a lover now!

  I’m busy now with state affairs,
    I prate of Pitt and Fox;
  I ask the price of rail-road shares,
    I watch the turns of stocks: 
  And this is life! no verdure blooms
    Upon the withered bough. 
  I save a fortune in perfumes,—­
    I’m not a lover now!

  I may be yet what others are,
    A boudoir’s babbling fool;
  The flattered star of bench or har,
    A party’s chief or tool: 
  Come shower or sunshine, hope or fear,
    The palace or the plough—­
  My heart and lute are broken here,—­
    I’m not a lover now! 
      Lady, the mist is on my sight,
        The chill is on my brow;
      My day is night, my bloom is blight,—­
          I’m not a lover now!

The First Ball, by L.E.L. is rife and gay; which, with Mr. Croker’s Three Advices, are all we can spare room to point out to our readers.

* * * * *

The Amulet.

Of this volume we have already availed ourselves.  Some of the engravings are in a vigorous and first-rate style of excellence; the binding, too, is somewhat gay for so grave a title—­being crimson silk.  Our favourites are a Voyage Round the World, by Montgomery, one of the best poems of the year; Faustus, with a Visit to Goethe; Angel Visits, by Mrs. Hemans; The Departed, by L.E.L.; and some pieces by the editor, Mr. Hall.  Our present extract is

THE LAST VOYAGE.  A TRUE STORY.

By Mrs. Opie.

We cannot fail to observe, as we advance in life, how vividly our earliest recollections recur to us, and this consciousness is accompanied by a melancholy pleasure, when we are deprived of those who are most tenderly associated with such remembrances, because they bring the beloved dead “before our mind’s eye;” and beguile the loneliness of the present hour, by visions of the past.  In such visions I now often love to indulge, and in one of them, a journey to Y——­ was recently brought before me, in which my ever-indulgent father permitted me to accompany him, when I was yet but a child.

As we drove through C——­r, a village within three miles of Y——­, he directed my attention to a remarkable rising, or conical mound of earth, on the top of the tower of C——­r church.  He then kindly explained the cause of this singular, and distinguishing appearance, and told me the traditionary anecdote connected with it; which now, in my own words, I am going to communicate to my readers.

It is generally supposed, that great grief makes the heart so selfishly absorbed in its own sufferings, as to render it regardless of the sufferings of others; but the conduct of her, who is the heroine of the following tale, will prove to this general rule an honourable exception.