Of jealous husbands, fickle wives,
Of all the tricks which love contrives

To see through veils, and talk through towers?

Lady, they say the fearful guest
Onward-still onward to the west,

Poised on his sulphurous wings, advances,
Who on the frozen river's banks

Has thinned the Russian despot's ranks,
And marred the might of Warsaw's lances.

Another year-a brief, brief year—
And lo, the fell destroyer here!

He comes with all his gloomy terrors;
Then Guilt will read the properest books,
And Folly wear the soberest looks,
And Virtue shudder at her errors.

And there'll be sermons in the street;
And every friend and foe we meet

Will wear the dismal garb of sorrow;
And quacks will send their lies about,
And weary Halford will find out

He must have four new bays to-morrow.

But you shall fly from their dark signs,
As did those happy Florentines,

Ere from your cheek one rose is faded;
Aud hide your youth and loveliness
In some bright garden's green recess,

By walls fenced round, by huge trees shaded.

There brooks shall dance in light along,
And birds shall trill their constant song
Of pleasure, from their leafy dwelling;

You shall have music, novels, toys;
But still the chiefest of your joys
Must be, fair Lady, story-telling.

Be cautious how you choose your men :
Don't look for people of the pen,

Scholars who read, or write the papers;
Don't think of wits, who talk to dine,
Who drink their patron's newest wine,
And cure their patron's newest vapours.

Avoid all youths who toil for praise
By quoting Liston's last new phrase,

Or sigh to leave high fame behind them.
For swallowing swords, or dancing jigs,
Or imitating ducks and pigs;

Take men of sense, if you can find them.

Live, laugh, tell stories; ere they're told,
New themes succeed upon the old,

New follies come, new faults, new fashions; An hour, a minute will supply

To thought a folio history

Of blighted hopes, and thwarted passions.

King Death, when he has snatched away
Drunkards from brandy, Dukes from play,
And common-councilmen from turtle,
Shall break his dart in Grosvenor Square,
And mutter, in his fierce despair,

"Why, what's become of Lady Myrtle?”

A BALLAD

TEACHING HOW POETRY IS BEST PAID FOR.

"Non voglio cento scudi."-Italian Song.

O SAY not that the minstrel's art,
The glorious gift of verse,

Though his hopes decay, though his friends depart,
Can ever be a curse;

Though sorrow reign within his heart,

And poortith hold his purse.

Say not his toil is profitless;
Though he charm no rich relation,
The Fairies all his labours bless

With such remuneration
As Mr. Hume would soon confess
Beyond his calculation.

Annuities and Three per Cents,
Little cares he about them;
And Indian bonds, and tithes, and rents,
He rambles on without them;

But love, and noble sentiments,

Oh, never bid him doubt them!

Childe Florice rose from his humble bed
And prayed, as a good youth should;
And forth he sped, with a lightsome tread,
Into the neighbouring wood;

He knew where the berries were ripe and red,
And where the old oak stood.

And as he lay at the noon of day

Beneath the ancient tree,

A grey-haired pilgrim passed that way;
A holy man was he,
And he was wending forth to pray
At a shrine in a far countrie.

Oh, his was a weary wandering,
And a song or two might cheer him,
The pious Childe began to sing,

As the ancient man drew near him ;

The lark was mute as he touched the string,

And the thrush said, "Hear him, hear him !”

He sang high tales of the martyred brave,
Of the good, and pure, and just,

Who have gone into the silent grave

In such deep faith and trust,

That the hopes and thoughts which sain and save Spring from their buried dust.

The fair of face, and the stout of limb,
Meek maids and grandsires hoary,

Who have sung on the cross their rapturous hymn,
As they passed to their doom of glory;

Their radiant fame is never dim,

Nor their names erased from story.

Time spares the stone where sleep the dead
With angels watching round them;

The mourner's grief is comforted

As he looks on the chains that bound them; And peace is shed on the murderer's head,

And he kisses the thorns that crowned them.

Such tales he told; and the pilgrim heard
In a trance of voiceless pleasure;

For the depths of his inmost soul was stirred

By the sad and solemn measure:

I give thee my blessing," was his word, "It is all I have of treasure!"

A little child came bounding by ;
And he, in a fragrant bower,
Had found a gorgeous butterfly,
Rare spoil for a nursery dower,
Which with fierce step and eager eye
He chased from flower to flower.

"Come hither, come hither," 'gan Florice call;

And the urchin left his fun :

So from the hall of poor Sir Paul
Retreats the baffled dun;

So Ellen parts from the village ball,
Where she leaves a heart half won.

Then Florice did the child caress,
And sang his sweetest songs:
Their theme was of the gentleness
Which to the soul belongs,
Ere yet it knows the name or dress
Of human rights and wrongs;

And of the wants which make agree
All parts of this vast plan;

How life is in whate'er we see,
And only life in man;

What matter where the less may be,

And where the longer span?

And how the heart grows cold without
Soft Pity's freshening dews;