I may not win you!-that's a bore!
But yet 't is sweet to woo you;

And for this cause, and twenty more, I send this gay book to you.

If its songs please you,-by this light! I will not hold it treason

To bid

you dream of me to-night,

And dance with me next season.

66

ANTICIPATION

"OH yes! he is in Parliament;

He's been returning thanks;

You can't conceive the time he's spent Already on his franks.

He'll think of nothing, night and day,
But place, and the gazette:".

No matter what the people say,—
You won't believe them yet.

“He filled an album, long ago,
With such delicious rhymes;
Now we shall only see, you know,
His speeches in the 'Times;'
And liquid tone and beaming brow,
Bright eyes and locks of jet,

He'll care for no such nonsense now:
Oh! don't believe them yet!

"I vow he's turned a Goth, a Hun,

By that disgusting Bill;

He'll never make another pun;

He's danced his last quadrille. We shall not see him flirt again With any fair coquette;

He'll never laugh at Drury Lane.”

Psha! - don't believe them yet.

"Last week I heard his uncle boast
He's sure to have the seals;

I read it in the 'Morning Post'
That he has dined at Peel's;
You'll never see him any more,
He's in a different set:

He cannot eat at half-past four:'
No? -don't believe them yet.

"In short, he'll soon be false and cold,

And infinitely wise;

He'll grow next year extremely old,

He'll tell enormous lies;

He'll learn to flatter and forsake,

To feign and to forget:"

O whisper-or my heart will breakYou won't believe them yet!

CHILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS

I

ONCE on a time, when sunny May
Was kissing up the April showers,
I saw fair Childhood hard at play
Upon a bank of blushing flowers:
Happy-he knew not whence or how,-

And smiling,-who could choose but love

him?

For not more glad than Childhood's brow,
Was the blue heaven that beamed above him.

II

Old Time, in most appalling wrath,

That valley's green repose invaded;
The brooks grew dry upon his path,
The birds were mute, the lilies faded.
But Time so swiftly winged his flight,
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter,
That Childhood watched his paper kite,
And knew just nothing of the matter.