Strolling about from bower to hall, Love paid Lavinia a morning call. An hour soon went--she chatted and sang-- He staid--till at last the dinner-bell rang. He staid, still charm'd; and rather alarm'd, Lavinia felt she must ask him to stay. "To tell you the truth," cried the radiant youth, "I'm here for life, I shall ne'er go away."
Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush, Till her heart itself might be seen to blush; Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind, Exclaim'd, "O Beauty, how long I've been blind!" More grateful grew he, more fervent she, More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond; So much like light was he to her sight, She could not trust him a step beyond.
Still more she cherish'd him year by year, Till at last each joy came tinged with fear; She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet, Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet; Or a reptile's sting beneath his wing She fear'd, if he lay in the greenwood asleep; Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake-- In dread of an ague, how would she weep!
She chatted and sang to Love no more, Lest music and chat should prove "a bore;" But she hung on his steps wherever he went, And shut from the chamber the rose's scent. She slept not a wink, for fear he should think She dream'd not of Love--so her eyes grew dim; She took no care of her beautiful hair, For she could not spare one moment from him.
Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt, Yet home was a desert if Love went out; In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs; "O Love," cried the lady, "I've given you eyes! And ah! should some face of a livelier grace Than mine ever meet them! Ah! _should_ you stray!" Love, wearied at last, was in slumber lock'd fast;-- "Those wings!" said the watcher, "he _might_ fly away."
One awful moment! Oh! could she sever Those wings from Love, he is hers for ever! With trembling hand she gathers the wings-- She clips--they are off! and up Love springs. "Adieu!" he cried, as he leapt from her side, "Of folly's cup you have drunk the dregs; My home was here; it is now with the deer; Thank Venus, though wingless, _Love has legs!_" L. B.
Bernard Cavanagh is the name of a person who is now raising considerable sums of money in Dublin by professing to work miracles--the greatest of them all consisting in his ability to live without any food whatever--which he is now said to have done for several months. Crowds flock to him to be cured of their lameness, deafness, &c.--_Irish Papers._