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, 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 yagrant
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.

RANK AYLMER'S hand! I know it well;

So manly, vigorous, and clearRare 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 flirt 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.'