the lily, now toyed with the Rose;
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind,
Was forsook for another ere evening's close.

I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame,
While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest;
They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came,
And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest:
And the harp of my country--neglected it slept--
In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs;
From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept
Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs.

But weep for the hour!--Life's summer is past,
And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow;
And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast,
Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now.
No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song
No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend,
Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong,
And a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend.

The Laureate.

BY A--- T---.

Who would not be
The Laureate bold,
With his butt of sherry
To keep him merry,
And nothing to do but to pocket his gold?
'Tis I would be the Laureate bold!
When the days are hot, and the sun is strong,
I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long,
With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold.
I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord;
But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest,
And the cool wind blowing upon my breast,
And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky,
And watch the clouds that are listless as I,
Lazily, lazily!
And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white,
And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite;
And I'd let my fancies roam abroad
In search of a hint for a birthday ode,
Crazily, crazily!

Oh, that would be the life for me,
With plenty to get and nothing to do,
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue,
And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo,
Trance-somely, trance-somely!
Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms,
Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms,
With their saucy caps and their crisped hair,
And they'd toss their heads in the fragrant air,
And say to each other--"Just look down there,
At the nice young man, so tidy and small,
Who is paid for writing on nothing at all,
Handsomely, handsomely!"

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles,
And crumpled-up b