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HER ROYAL HIGHNESS

THE PRINCESS VICTORIA;

THE

VOLUME OF THE AFFECTIONS,

OR,

BRIDAL OFFERING;

IS

(BY PERMISSION)

MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED,

BY HER ROYAL HIGHNESS'S

VERY FAITHFUL, AND VERY HUMBLE SERVANT,

THE EDITOR.

NOTICE.

The flattering reception of " MY DAUGHTER'S Book," by a Literary Community—at once generous and indulgent -induced me to direct my best attention and moderate abilities to a mark of a much higher, and as I believe, a more imperative calling. The expressions of congratulation, indirectly conveyed to my understanding by the REVIEWERS-without a single exception-which followed the publication of my Manual of Female Education, while they could not fail to gratify my heart, tended, at the same time, to influence my mind in the accomplishment of the VOLUME OF THE AFFECTIONS; the object and tendency of which Volume are delineated, in plain and natural language, in the Preface. Whether I may, in this place, venture to persuade myself, that "MY DAUGHTER'S Book" deserved so great patronage from its own merits, or whether I am insuperably indebted to the sensitive, but noble-minded Gentlemen who preside over the Press -stern, severe, and inflexible as they are known to be, in their mental and literary sovereignty- I may not decide; but incline to the latter proposition. At the same time, I know it to be my duty" not to pass this sheet to the hands of the skilful Typographer, without recording my unpretending and earnest thanks to her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent, for a patronage almost, if not altogether undeserved, at the hands of the Royal Parent of the PRINCESS VICTORIA.

THE WHISPER OF LOVE.

IT was but a whisper,

As soft as the swell,

Of the murmurs that even

Oft wakes in the dell ;

As low as the plaints

Of a young maiden's grief,

The song of a river,

The fall of a leaf;

Or the feet of the fairies

That dance as they pass, Without brushing the dew from The beautiful grass.

It was but a whisper,
She heard it full well;
It hath made her eye sparkle,
Her white bosom swell :
Like the dolphin that dies

In the sun's golden light;
Her cheek changes colour,
Now crimson, now white ;
Now flutters her heart,

Like the gondolier's sail, Her hand like the lily

That shakes in the gale!

It was but a whisper

As soft as a sigh,

But such word was not born
With such whisper to die :
It will long be her Eden
In memory's isle,

The light of her brow and
The life of her smile.
To the ark of her hopes
It hath come like a dove,
And her heart is the home of
The Whisper of Love.