Page images

And how when any life goes out

Some little pang ensues :-
Facts which great soldiers often doubt,

And wits who write reviews.
Oh, song hath power o'er Nature's springs,

Though deep the Nymph has laid them! The child gazed-gazed on gilded wings

As the next bright breeze displayed them ; But he felt the while that the meanest things

Are dear to Him that made them !

The sun went down behind the hill,

The breeze was growing colder; But there the Minstrel lingered still,

And amazed the chance beholder,
Musing beside a rippling rill

With a harp upon his shoulder.
And soon, on a graceful steed and tame,

A sleek Arabian mare,
The lady Juliana came

Riding to take the air,
With many a lord at whose proud name

A Radical would swear.

The Minstrel touched his lute again;

It was more than a Sultan's crown, When the Lady checked her bridle rein

And lit from her palfrey down :What would you give for such a strain,

Rees, Longman, Orme and Brown? He sang of Beauty's dazzling eyes,

Of Beauty's melting tone,

And her praise is a richer prize

Than the gems of Persia's throne, And her love a bliss which the coldly wise

Have never, never known.

He told how the valiant scoff at fear

When the sob of her grief is heard ; How fiercely they fight for a smile or a tear,

How they die for a single word :Things which, I own, to me appear

Exceedingly absurd.

The Lady soon had heard enough;

She turned to hear Sir Denys
Discourse in language vastly gruff

About his skill at Tennis ;
While smooth Sir Guy described the stuff

His mistress wore at Venice.
The Lady smiled one radiant smile,

And the Lady rode away-
There is not a Lady in all our Isle,

I have heard a Poet say,
Who can listen more than a little while

To a poet's sweetest lay.--

His mother's voice was fierce and shrill

As she set the milk and fruit :
“Out on thine unrewarded skill,

And on thy vagrant lute;
Let the strings be broken an they will,

And the beggar lips be mute!”

Peace, peace ! the Pilgrim as he went

Forgot the Minstrel's song,

But the blessing that his wan lips sent

Will guard the Minstrel long, And keep his spirit innocent,

And turn his hand from wrong. Belike the child had little thought

Of the moral the Minstrel drew;
But the dream of a deed of kindness wrought-

Brings it not peace to you?
And does not a lesson of virtue taught

Teach him that teaches too?
And if the Lady sighed no sigh

For the Minstrel or his hymn,-
Yet when he shall lie 'neath the moonlit sky,

Or lip the goblet's brim,
What a star in the mist of memory

That smile will be to him !

It was my father's wine,-alas !

It was his chiefest bliss
To fill an old friend's evening glass

With nectar such as this.
I think I have as warm a heart,

As kind a friend, as he ;
Another bumper ere we part !

Old wine, old wine, for me.
In this we toasted William Pitt,

Whom twenty now outshine;
O'er this we laughed at Canning's wit,

Ere Hume's was thought as fine ;

In this “The King”—“The Church "_" The

Have had their three times three ;
Sound wine befits as sound a cause ;

Old wine, old wine for me.

In this, when France in those long wars

Was beaten black and blue,
We used to drink our troops and tars,

Our Wellesley and Pellew;
Now, things are changed, though Britain's

fame May out of fashion be, At least my wine remains the same !

Old wine, old wine for me.

My neighbours, Robinson and Lamb,

Drink French of last year's growth ;
I'm sure, however they may sham,

It disagrees with both.
I don't pretend to interfere ;

An Englishman is free;
But none of that cheap poison here !

Old wine, old wine for me.

Some dozens lose, I must allow,

Something of strength and hue ;
And there are vacant spaces now

To be filled up with new ;
And there are cobwebs round the bins,

Which some don't like to see ;
If these are all my cellar's sins,

Old wine, old wine for me.




DEAR Alice ! you'll laugh when you know it,

Last week, at the Duchess's ball,
I danced with the clever new poet, -

You've heard of him,-Tully St. Paul.
Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic;

I wish you had seen Lady Anne !
It really was very romantic,

He is such a talented man !

He came up from Brazenose College,

Just caught, as they call it, this spring ;
And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge

Of every conceivable thing.
Of science and logic he chatters,

As fine and as fast as he can;
Though I am no judge of such matters,

I'm sure he's a talented man.

His stories and jests are delightful ;

Not stories or jests, dear, for you;
The jests are exceedingly spiteful,

The stories not always quite true.
Perhaps to be kind and veracious

May do pretty well at Lausanne;
But it never would answer,--good gracious !

Chez nous—in a talented man.

He sneers,-how my Alice would scold him I

At the bliss of a sigh or a tear;


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