George Cruikshank's Omnibus. George Cruikshank

shall ne'er go away."

      Love's fire shot through her in one wild flush,

      Till her heart itself might be seen to blush;

      Love saw, and finding it faithful and kind,

      Exclaim'd, "O Beauty, how long I've been blind!"

      More grateful grew he, more fervent she,

      More watchful, sensitive, warm, and fond;

      So much like light was he to her sight,

      She could not trust him a step beyond.

      Still more she cherish'd him year by year,

      Till at last each joy came tinged with fear;

      She fear'd, if he stroll'd where wild flowers meet,

      Lest thorns might pierce his delicate feet;

      Or a reptile's sting beneath his wing

      She fear'd, if he lay in the greenwood asleep;

      Or walk'd he awake by the moonlit lake—

      In dread of an ague, how would she weep!

      She chatted and sang to Love no more,

      Lest music and chat should prove "a bore;"

      But she hung on his steps wherever he went,

      And shut from the chamber the rose's scent.

      She slept not a wink, for fear he should think

      She dream'd not of Love—so her eyes grew dim;

      She took no care of her beautiful hair,

      For she could not spare one moment from him.

      Love's bright fireside grew dark with doubt,

      Yet home was a desert if Love went out;

      In vain were his vows, caresses, and sighs;

      "O Love," cried the lady, "I've given you eyes!

      And ah! should some face of a livelier grace

      Than mine ever meet them! Ah! should you stray!"

      Love, wearied at last, was in slumber lock'd fast;—

      "Those wings!" said the watcher, "he might fly away."

      One awful moment! Oh! could she sever

      Those wings from Love, he is hers for ever!

      With trembling hand she gathers the wings—

      She clips—they are off! and up Love springs.

      "Adieu!" he cried, as he leapt from her side,

      "Of folly's cup you have drunk the dregs;

      My home was here; it is now with the deer;

      Thank Venus, though wingless, Love has legs!" L. B.

BERNARD CAVANAGH,

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      THE IRISH CAMELEON.

      Bernard Cavanagh is the name of a person who is now raising considerable sums of money in Dublin by professing to work miracles—the greatest of them all consisting in his ability to live without any food whatever—which he is now said to have done for several months. Crowds flock to him to be cured of their lameness, deafness, &c.—Irish Papers.