f Peer--no title that he bears--
No decoration that he wears--
Can the proud name of Bard excel,
Or pale the badge he loves so well.
If Peasant--he may here be taught
That none are poor who, rich in thought,
Possess in Mind's high utterings
A nobler heritage than kings.
If old--what once you were you'll see:
If young--what p'rhaps one day you'll be--
For youth yearns upward to the sage;
And childhood's joy delighteth age.
Come rich--come poor--come old and young,
And join our Feast of Art and Song.
What forms our banquet all shall know,
And hungry homeward none must go.
We boast not here of knife or platter;
Our feast is of the mind--not matter,
Along our festive board observe
No crystal fruit--no rare preserve:
No choice exotic here and there,
With wine cup sparkling everywhere:
No toothsome dish--no morsel sweet--
Such savoury things as people eat;
So if for these you yearn--refrain!
For these you'll look and long in vain.
Our Feast's composed of dainty dishes--
To suit far daintier tastes and wishes.
While for the splendour of our wine--
I've oftimes heard it called divine:
For who that drinks of Music's stream,
Or quaffs of Art's inspiring theme,
Shall say that both are things of earth--
That both are not of heavenly birth?
While gathered blossoms fade away,
The Poet's thoughts for ever stay--
E'en as the rose's perfumed breath
Survives the faded flow'ret's death.
No pleasure human hand can give
Is lasting--all things briefly live.
But sounds which flow from Minstrelsy
Vibrate through all eternity!
Then welcome! welcome! one and all,
To this, our Nation's Festival.
Come rich--come poor: come old and young
And join our Feast of Art and Song!

CHANGE.

In the Summer golden,
When the forests olden
Shook their rich tresses gaily in the morn;
And the lark upflew,
Sprinkling silver dew
Down from its light wing o'er the yellow corn;
When every blessing
Seem'd the earth caressing,
As though 'twere fondled by some love sublime,
Strong in her youthful hope,
Upon the sunny slope
A maid sat, dreaming o'er the happy time--
Dreaming what blissful heights were hers to climb.

In the Winter dreary,
When the willow, weary,
Hung sad and silent o'er the frozen stream;
And the trembling lark
Murmur'd, cold