my album Sunday night,--
I'm not a lover now!

I don't encourage idle dreams
Of poison or of ropes,
I cannot dine on airy schemes,
I cannot sup on hopes:
New milk, I own is very fine,
Just foaming from the cow;
But yet I want my pint of wine,--
I'm not a lover now!

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 recent