Good night to the Season!—the flowers Of the grand horticultural fête,

When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,

And the fashion was-not to be late; When all who had money and leisure Grew rural o'er ices and wines, All pleasantly toiling for pleasure, All hungrily pining for pines, And making of beautiful speeches, And marring of beautiful shows, And feeding on delicate peaches, And treading on delicate toes.

Good night to the Season!-Another
Will come, with its trifles and toys,
And hurry away, like its brother,

In sunshine, and odour, and noise.
Will it come with a rose or a briar?

Will it come with a blessing or curse? Will its bonnets be lower or higher? Will its morals be better or worse? Will it find me grown thinner or fatter, Or fonder of wrong or of right,

Or married-or buried ?-no matter:

Good night to the Season-good night!

WE met but in one giddy dance,

Good-night joined hands with greeting; And twenty thousand things may chance Before our second meeting:

For oh! I have been often told

That all the world grows older,
And hearts and hopes, to-day so cold,
To-morrow must be colder.

If I have never touched the string
Beneath your chamber, dear one,
And never said one civil thing

When you were by to hear one,-
If I have made no rhymes about

Those looks which conquer Stoics, And heard those angel tones, without One fit of fair heroics,

Good night to the Season!-the flowers
Of the grand horticultural fête,
When boudoirs were quitted for bowers,

And the fashion was-not to be late;
When all who had money and leisure
Grew rural o'er ices and wines,
All pleasantly toiling for pleasure,
All hungrily pining for pines,
And making of beautiful speeches,
And marring of beautiful shows,
And feeding on delicate peaches,
And treading on delicate toes.

WE met but in one giddy dance,

Good-night joined hands with greeting; And twenty thousand things may chance Before our second meeting:

For oh! I have been often told

Yet do not, though the world's cold school
Some bitter truths has taught me,
O do not deem me quite the fool

Which wiser friends have thought me!
There is one charm I still could feel,
If no one laughed at feeling;
One dream my lute could still reveal,-
If it were worth revealing.

But Folly little cares what name
Of friend or foe she handles,
When merriment directs the game,
And midnight dims the candles;
I know that Folly's breath is weak
And would not stir a feather;
But yet I would not have her speak
Your name and mine together.

Oh no! this life is dark and bright,
Half rapture and half sorrow;

My heart is very full to-night,

My cup shall be to-morrow;

But they shall never know from me,
On any one condition,

Whose health made bright my Burgundy,

Whose beauty was my vision!