THE TOPER'S APOLOGY.

But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare,

I see the gloom less plain

And that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

I find too when I stint my glass,

And sit with sober air,

I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass, Who treads the path of care;

Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear

Some coxcomb's fribbling strain

And that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too,

With different holds entwine?

While nought but death can some undo,

There's some give way to wine, With me the lighter head I wear

The lighter hangs the chain--

To fill my glass again.

And now I'll tell, to end my song,

At what I most repine;

This cursed war, or right or wrong,

Is war against all wine;

Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare
As juice of France or Spain-

And that I think's a reason fair

To fill my glass again.

CAPTAIN CHARLES MORRIS.

ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, MISS

ELLEN TREE.

O

N this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings,

The Tree will return her as good as she

brings.

HENRY LUTTRELL.

And milkmaids half divine;

They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping
In the shade of a spreading tree,
And a walk in the fields at morning,

By the side of a footstep free!

True love is at home on a carpet,

And mightily likes his ease;

And true love has an eye for a dinner,

And starves beneath shady trees.

His wing is the fan of a lady,

His foot's an invisible thing,

And his arrow is tipped with a jewel,

And shot from a silver string.

N. P. WILLIS.

At what age doth love begin?

Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen,

But a miracle of sweets,

Soft approaches, sly retreats,

Show the little archer there,

Hidden in your pretty hair;

When didst learn a heart to win?

Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh!" the rosy lips reply,

"I can't tell you if I try.

'Tis so long I can't remember:

Ask some younger lass than I!"

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face,

Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire,

STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY.

When do frosts put out the fire?

Can its embers burn below

All that chill December snow?

Care you still soft hands to press,

Bonny heads to smooth and bless ?

When does Love give up the chase?

Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face?

"Ah!" the wise old lips reply,

Out of ten or a dozen that sport round the border,

Some fly turns a summersault into my glass.