The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 10, No. 288, Supplementary Number

There was a time when I could feel
All passion's hopes and fears,
And tell what tongues can ne'er reveal,
By smiles, and sighs, and tears.
The days are gone! no more, no more,
The cruel fates allow;
And, though I'm hardly twenty-four,
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!

I never talk about the clouds,
I laugh at girls and boys,
I'm growing rather fond of crowds,
And very fond of noise;
I never wander forth alone
Upon the mountain's brow;
I weighed, last winter, sixteen stone,—
I'm not a lover now!

I never wish to raise a veil,
I never raise a sigh;
I never tell a tender tale,
I never tell a lie;
I cannot kneel as once I did;
I've quite forgot my bow;
I never do as I am bid,—
I'm not a lover now!

I make strange blunders every day,
If I would be gallant,
Take smiles for wrinkles, black for grey.
And nieces for their aunt;
I fly from folly, though it flows
From lips of loveliest glow;
I don't object to length of nose,—
I'm not a lover now!

The muse's steed is very fleet—
I'd rather ride my mare;
The poet hunts a quaint conceit—
I'd rather hunt a hare;
I've learnt to utter yours and you
Instead of thine and thou;
And oh! I can't endure a Blue!—
I'm not a lover now!

I find my Ovid dry,
My Petrarch quite a pill,
Cut Fancy for Philosophy,
Tom Moore for Mr. Mill;
And belles may read, and beaux may write,
I care not who or how;
I burnt 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.