'd the Sirens heard
And to assert their voice appear'd.

She play'd, the Muses from their hill,
Marvell'd who thus had stole their skill;
_Apollo's_ wit was next her prey,
Her next the beam that lights the day;
While _Jove_ her pilferings to crown,
Pronounc'd these beauties all her own;
Pardon'd her crimes, and prais'd her art,
And t'other day she stole--my heart.

Cupid, if lovers are thy care,
Revenge thy vot'ry on this fair;
Do justice on her stolen charms,
And let her prison be--my arms.

W.H.H.

* * * * *

SHAKSPEARE.

(_To the Editor of the Mirror_.)

In the Drama entitled _Shakspeare's Early Days_, the compliment which
the poet is made to pay the queen: "That as at her birth she wept when
all around was joy, so at her death she will smile while all around is
grief," has been admired by the critics. In this jewel-stealing age, it
is but just to restore the little brilliant to its owner. The following
lines are in Sir William Jones's Life, translated by him from one of the
Eastern poets, and are so exquisitely beautiful that I think they will
be acceptable to some of your fair readers for their albums.

T.B.

TO AN INFANT.

On parent's knees, a naked new-born child,
Weeping thou sat'st, while all around thee smil'd.
So live, that sinking to thy last long sleep,
Calm thou may'st smile, while all around thee--weep.

* * * * *

THE RUINED WELL.

(_For the Mirror_.)

The form of ages long gone by
Crowd thick on Fancy's wondering eye,
And wake the soul to musings high!

J.T. WALTER.

Where are the lights that shone of yore
Around this haunted spring?
Do they upon some distant shore
Their holy lustre fling?
It was not thus when pilgrims came
To hymn beneath the night,
And dimly gleam'd the censor's flame
When stars and streams were bright.

What art thou--since five hundred years
Have o'er thy waters roll'd;
Since clouds have wept their crystal tears
From skies of beaming gold?
Thy rills receive the tint of heaven,
Which erst illum'd thy shrine;
And sweetest birds their songs have given,
For music more divine.

Beside thee hath the maiden kept
Her vigils pale and lone;
While darkly have her ringlets swept
The chapel's sculptur'd stone;
And when the vesper-hymn was sung
Around the warrior's bier,
W