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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.”

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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, iny 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:

Or anon, when evening lent her

Tranquil light to hill and vale, Urge, towards the table’s centre,

With unerring hand, the squail.

Ah delectablest of summers !
How
my

heart—that “ muffled drum," Which ignores the aid of drummers—

Beats, as back thy memories come !

O among the dancers peerless,

Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!
Need I

say
to
you

that cheerless Must my days be till I die ?

At my side she mashed the fragrant

Strawberry; lashes soft as silk, Drooped o'er saddened eyes, when vagrant

Gnats sought watery graves in milk:

Then we danced, we walked together;

Talked- -no doubt on trivial topics ; Such as Blondin, or the weather,

Which “ recalled us to the tropics."

But-o in the deuxtemps peerless,

Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!Once more I repeat, that cheerless

Shall my days be till I die. And the lean and hungry raven,

As he picks my bones, will start To observe “M. N." engraven Neatly on my blighted heart.

CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. INVITED AND DECLINING.

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RANK AYLMER'S hand! I know it

well;

So manly, vigorous, and clear

Rare gift in such a thorough swell, And heir to thousands ten a-year. What says

old Frank ? some cheery word, Some lightsome jest, some chaff absurd,

Some hospitable hope
Of future fun.—Ay, so I thought!
Here, read his note! with feeling fraught,

Though clothed in many a trope,

“You'll come for Christmas to The Ferns,

You know the Governor expects you ;
You'll Airt with all the girls by turns,

And always have some nice one next you:
You'll ride The Rip—he's well again,
Seems quite recovered from the sprain

He got with Tommy Hinde ;
Before I'd let that feeble lad
Cross horse of mine, however bad,
I'd see him

never mind !

Bulbul, the poet, comes that week,

And Charley Chesterton—the Smiler'
They call him in the Tenth—and Creek,

The scalping-knife of the Reviler.
Jack Tremlett would, but daren't ; his wife
Has led him the-et-cetera's— life,

Since last you dined at mess :
She caught him shawling Nelly Hughes;
The coryphée, and saw him use

The Freedom of the Press.'

“ Kate Brandeth comes to us, I hope,

And Anne (* I wish I was with Nancy !')
You won't see much of Gertrude Cope,

As Horne comes with her—her fiancé ;
Tom Selwyn brings his pretty bride,
But, never stirring from her side,

He's lost to human ken;
We've ask'd Du Singe, who shot the apes ;
The great art lecturer, Dr. Gapes,

And other noted men.
“ Snorter will have the cedar-room

(It is the Moor—I know his trumpet :) ; E’en his sonorous nasal boom

Won't wake his neighbour, deaf aunt Crumpet, Flemming, his handkerchief and cough, We've put a little farther off;

While-penance for your crimes !. You'll share my den—you know the spot ! Where Latakie and whiskies hot

Shall flout the midnight chimes. “So come, Ned; Aling the pen aside,

Upset the ink and tear the paper;
Shake up your liver with a ride;

And brace up your muscles with a caper.
That pile of notice-waiting books,
Those rounded shoulders, careworn looks,

In London leave behind;
And bring back to our eyes once more
The man who made the cricket-score,
And beat the

navvy

blind.” No, dear old Frank! though heaven knows

A kinder missive ne'er was sent; Rousseau-like, I myself oppose

All for my own enjoyment meant !

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