That stewards of all races entreat him
To go to them; what can he do?
So odd you should happen to meet him,
So strange as he's just passing through.

In town, in the month of September,
We find neither riches nor rank;
In vain we look out for a member
To give us a nod or a frank.
Each knocker in silence reposes,
In every mansion you find
One dirty old woman who dozes,

Or peeps through the dining-room blind!

Then hence, thou last man of the season;
Lest fashion the outrage should blab;
Shrink back as if guilty of treason
Within the dark depths of thy cab.
If money be wanting, go borrow,
Remain-and thy character's lost!
Go print thy departure to-morrow:
"Sir Linger from Long's to the coast!"
THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY.

ALL ALONE.

A LAY OF THE MORTE SAISON.

IN

Y Brown has gone away to Greece,
My Robinson to Rome;

My Jones was off to-day for Nice,

And I am still at home.
One friend is on the Tiber,
Another on the Rhone,
The third a bock-imbiber-
And I am all alone.

The Row is dull as dull can be;
Deserted is the Drive;

The glass that stood at eighty-three
Stands now at sixty-five.
The summer days are over;
The town, ah, me! has flown
Through Dover or to clover—
And I am all alone.

I hate the mention of Lucerne,
Of Baden and the Rhine;
I hate the Oberland of Berne,
And Alp and Apennine.
I hate the wilds of Norway,
As here I sit and moan-
With none to cross my doorway—
For I am all alone.

Brick streets do not a prison make,
Nor hollow squares a cell;
And so for Memory's pleasant sake,
I'll bear my sorrow well.
My lyre may lose the gladness
That mark'd its former tone;
But, oh! respect my sadness-

For I am all alone.

WINTER.

HENRY S. Leigh.

EE Richmond is clad in a mantle of

snow;

The woods that o'ershadow'd the

hill,

Now bend with their load, while the river below,
In musical murmurs forgetting to flow,
Stands mournfully frozen and still.

Who cares for the winter! my sunbeams shall

shine

Serene from a register stove;

With two or three jolly companions to dine,
And two or three bottles of generous wine,
The rest I relinquish to Jove.

The oak bows its head in the hurricane's swell,
Condemn'd in its glory to fall:

The marigold dies unperceiv'd in the dell,
Unable alike to retard or impel

The crisis assign'd to us all.

Then banish to-morrow, its hopes and its fears;
To-day is the prize we have won ;
Ere surly old age in its wrinkle appears,
With laughter and love, in your juvenile years
Make sure of the days as they run.

The park and the playhouse my presence shall greet,

The opera yield its delight;

Catalani may charm me, but ten times more sweet,
The musical voice of Laurette when we meet
In tête-à-tête concert at night.

False looks of denial in vain would she fling,
In vain to some corner begone;

And if in our kisses I snatch off her ring,
It is, to my fancy, a much better thing
Than a kiss after putting one on!

JAMES SMITH.

IF!

F life were never bitter,

And love were always sweet,
Then who would care to borrow
A moral from to-morrow,-

If Thames would always glitter,
And joy would ne'er retreat,
If life were never bitter,

And love were always sweet.

If care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair,
When easy-going sinners

Sit down to Richmond dinners,
And life's swift stream flows straighter-

By Jove, it would be rare,
If care were not the waiter
Behind a fellow's chair.

If wit were always radiant,

And wine were always iced, And bores were kicked out straightway Through a convenient gateway; Then down the year's long gradient "Twere sad to be enticed,

If wit were always radiant,

And wine were always iced.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

"THERE STANDS A CITY."

EAR by year do Beauty's daughters

In the sweetest gloves and shawls, Troop to taste the Chattenham waters, And adorn the Chattenham balls.

"Nulla non donanda laura,”
Is that city you could not,
Placing England's map before you,
Light on a more favoured spot.

If no clear translucent river

Winds 'neath willow-shaded paths, "Children and adults" may shiver All day in "Chalybeate baths."

And on every side the painter
Looks on wooded vale and plain
And on fair hills, faint and fainter
Outlined as they near the main.

There I met with him, my chosen

Friend-the "long" but not "stern swell," Faultless in his hats and hosen,

Whom the Johnian lawns know well:

:

Oh

my comrade, ever valued!

Still I see your festive face;

Hear you humming of "the gal you'd
Left behind" in massive bass:

See you sit with that composure
On the eeliest of hacks,

That the novice would suppose your
Manly limbs encased in wax: