Where ladies jest, and lovers laugh,

And noble lords are bound in calf,

And Zoilus for his sins rehearses

Old Bentham's prose, old Wordsworth's verses, If I have not found a richer draught

Than ever yet Olympus quaffed,

Better and brighter and dearer far

Than the golden sands of Pactolus are!"

And then he filled in triumph up,

To the highest top-sparkle, Jove's beaming cup, And pulling up his silver hose,

And turning in his tottering toes,

(While Hebe, as usual, the mischievous gipsy,
Was laughing to see her brother tipsy,)
He said "May it please your high Divinity,
This nectar is-Milk Punch at Trinity!"

(1825.)

MY OWN FUNERAL.

FROM DE BERANGER.

THIS morning, as in bed I lay,
Half waking and half sleeping,
A score of Loves, immensely gay,
Were round my chamber creeping;
I could not move my hand or head

To ask them what the stir meant;
And "Ah," they cried, "our friend is dead;
Prepare for his interment !"

All whose hearts with mine were blended,
Weep for me! my days are ended!

One drinks my brightest Burgundy,
Without a blush, before me;

One brings a little rosary,

And breathes a blessing o'er me; One finds my pretty chambermaid, And courts her in dumb crambo; Another sees the mutes arrayed With fife by way of flambeau :

In your feasting and your fêting,
Weep for me! my hearse is waiting.

Was ever such a strange array?

The mourners all are singing;
From all the churches on our way
A merry peal is ringing;

The pall that clothes my cold remains,
Instead of boars and dragons,

Is blazoned o'er with darts and chains,
With lutes, and flowers, and flagons:
Passers-by their heads are shaking!-
Weep for me! my grave is making.

And now they let my coffin fall;
And one of them rehearses,

For want of holy ritual,

My own least holy verses:
The sculptor carves a laurel leaf,
And writes my name and story;

And silent nature in her grief

Seems dreaming of my glory:

Just as I am made immortal,

Weep for me!-they bar the portal.

But Isabel, by accident,

Was wandering by that minute;

She opened that dark monument,

And found her slave within it; The clergy said the Mass in vain,

The College could not save me; But life, she swears, returned again With the first kiss she gave me: You who deem that life is sorrow, Weep for me again to-morrow!

(1826.)

TIME'S SONG.

O'ER the level plains, where mountains greet me as

I go,

O'er the desert waste, where fountains at my bidding

flow,

On the boundless beam by day, on the cloud by night, I am riding hence away: who will chain my flight?

War his weary watch was keeping,-I have crushed his spear;

Grief within her bower was weeping, I have dried

her tear;

Pleasure caught a minute's hold, then I hurried by, Leaving all her banquet cold, and her goblet dry.

Power had won a throne of glory: where is now his fame?

Genius said "I live in story:" who hath heard his name?

Love beneath a myrtle bough whispered "Why so

fast?"

And the roses on his brow withered as I past.