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RETROSPECTION.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

So hasty to praise or condemn,

How blind to suppose a life-sorrow

Can be conjur'd away by a gem!

And he - whom I worshipped at twenty,

Who plighted himself to be mine,

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Who thought I was heartless and fickle,

And left him, in riches to shine, -

Ah! had he but known my affliction,

My sorrow akin to despair,

Perhaps then he had not upbralded

And made my lot harder to bear!

For at night when the children are sleeping,

And Reginald sits by my side,

I find the tears silently creeping

To my eyes, and strive them to hide.

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