CHARADES.

I.

THERE was a time young Roland thought
His huntsman's call was worth a dozen
Of those sweet notes his ear had caught
In boyhood, from his blue-eyed cousin.
How is it now, that by my First

Silent he sits, nor cares to follow

His deep-mouth'd stag-hound's matin burst,
His clear-ton'd huntsman's joyous hollo?

How is it now, when Isabel

Breathes one low note of those sweet numbers,

That every thought of hill and dell,

And all-save that sweet minstrel-slumbers.

Why does he feel that long, dull pain

Within my Second when she leaves him?

When shall his falcon fly again?

When shall he break the spell that grieves him?

And Isabel-how is it, too,

That sadness o'er that young brow closes ? How hath her eye lost half its blue?

How have her cheeks lost all their roses?
Still on her lute sweet numbers dwell,

Still magic seems the breath that sways it
But, oh! how changed the tone and spell,
If Roland be not there to praise it!

One summer's eve, while Isabel

Sang till the starlight came to greet her,

A tear from Roland's eyelid fell,

;

And warp'd the string and spoil'd the metre.

She could not sing another note;

Wherefore, or why, I've not a notion;

And he the swelling in his throat

Seemed working from some poisonous potion.

I know not-I-how sigh or tear

Cause these hysterical effusions;

But from that eve, one little year

Witnessed, you'll say, such strange conclusion.

Beside my All I saw them sit;

And that same lute of song so tender

A little child was thumping it

With all his might-against the fender!

And Isabel-she sang no more,

But ever that small urchin followed;

Who, with the lute upon the floor,

Like a young dryad, whooped and holloed!

And Roland's hound is heard again,

And Roland's hawk hath loosened jesses!

But Roland's smile is brightest when

Beside my All his boy he presses.

II.

SIR HARRY is famed for his amiable way
Of talking a deal, when he's nothing to say:
Sir Harry will sit by our Rosalie's side,
And whisper from morn until eventide ;

Yet, if you would ask of that maiden fair
What Sir Harry said while he lingered there;
Were the maiden as clever as L. E. L.

Not a word that he said could the maiden tell!

Sir Harry has ears, and Sir Harry has eyes,

And Sir Harry has teeth of the usual size;

His nose is a nose of the every-day sort―

Not exceedingly long, nor excessively short;

And his breath, tho' resembling in nought the "sweet south,"

Is inhaled through his lips, and exhaled from his mouth; And yet, from the hour that Sir Harry was nursed, People said that his head was no more than my

First!

Sir Harry has ringlets he curls every day,
And a fortune he spends in pomatums, they say;
He is just such a youth as our Rosalie bides with,
When she hasn't got me to take waltzes or rides with ;
But not such a one as, I ween, she would choose,
Were a youth that I know to be caught in the noose;
For I've oft heard her say-tho' so flighty she's reck-
oned-

That she'd ne'er take a bridegroom who hadn't my
Second!

Sir Harry sat out, the last visit he paid,

From when breakfast was over, till dinner was laid! He talked, in his usual lady-like way,

Of the ball and the ballet-the park and the play.