Tell him, that day by day,

Life looks to me more dim

I REMEMBER HOW MY CHILDHOOD FLEETED.

I remember, I remember,

How my childhood fleeted by―
The mirth of its December,
And the warmth of its July

On my brow, love, on my brow, love,
There are no signs of care,
But my pleasure's are not now, love,
What childhood's pleasure's were:

Then the bowers, then the bowers,
Were as blithe as blithe could be,

And all their radiant flowers

Were coronals for me:

Gems to-night, love, gems to-night, love,
Are gleaming in my hair;

But they are not half so bright, love,

As childhood's roses were.

I was merry, I was merry,

When my little lovers came—

With a lily, or a cherry,

Or a new invented game :

Now I've you, love, now I've you, love,
To kneel before me there;

But you know you're not so true, love,
As childhood's lovers were.

CHARADES.

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?