DIRGE OF A LOVE-STRICKEN POET.

HOW often from my window-seat

I watched a new-born bird,

Who sat upon a neighboring tree,

Singing his spring-time melody,

Till to my heart I would repeat

His song, the sweetest I had ever heard.

But listen to this tale of woe,

Your feelings it will harrow;

A little mucker without shoes,

Who for a cent his soul would lose,

To mischief bending, bent his bow

And stopped the pretty warbling with an arrow.

Now read the mournful simile,

And many tear-drops shed;

With Love's most fascinating dart

Cupid, that imp, has pierced my heart;

His wound is worse than death can be, -

My birdlike (?) singing is forever dead!