A MISSION.

LIKE summer skies her eyes of blue,

Streakt sunset are her locks of yellow;

And that I love her, must be true.

She only says, "You foolish fellow!"

I'd pour my free blood out for her

Were it the proper thing to pour it;

I love to madness, I aver;

And, oh! her sketching, I adore it!

Her Kensington embroidery

Would quite bereave a man of reason;

She sings like Gerster or Patti;

She waltzes in and out of season.

She treats her lovers, every one,

To winning smiles or gestures haughty;

She plays Chopin and Mendelssohn

Like mad on the piano-forte.

A month ago those words I wrote,

Before I dreamt what ruin boded,

Or that the fair one wished to vote, -

Alas! how were my hopes exploded!

I walk'd with her, I danc'd, I rode,

On bended knee I begg'd her choose me :

She droopt her eyelids a-la-mode, -

"I have a mission, please excuse me."

F.