Song of the Season, a very long way after Herrick_.)

"London town is another affair
Since HERRICK wrote his perfect rhymes."

MORTIMER COLLINS.

True, sadly true, shaper of rattling rhymes,
London hath changed with process of the times.
Aurora now may "throw her faire
Fresh-quilted colours through the aire,"
But our conditions atmospheric
Are not as in the days of HERRICK.
Nathless the Muse to-day may see
Flora at urban revelry.
See how the goddess trippeth from the West,
Fragrant, though something fashionably drest;
The Season waketh at her tread,
Art lifteth a long-drooping head;
Music doth make a merry din.
'Tis profanation, keeping in,
Whenas a hundred Shows upon this day
Spring, lightly as the lark to fetch in May.

Rise, Nymph, put on fresh finery, and be seen,
To come forth like the Spring-time, fresh and green!
And gay as Flora. Art is there,
With flowing hyacinthine hair.
Fear not, the throng will strew
Largess abundant upon _you_,
When Burlington's great Opening Day is kept.
Gone is thy Grosvenor rival, not unwept;
But a New Nymph, with footing light,
Trips it beside thee, nor hath night
Shadowed sweet "Aquarelle" whose skill,
As of a Water-Nymph, is still
Well to the fore. Pipe up! playing means paying,
When Fashion's Urban Flora goes a-Maying.

Come, my CORINNA, come; and, coming, mark
How each street turns a grove, each square a park,
Made green and trimmed with trees: see how
The pinky hawthorn decks the bough!
Each Bond Street porch, or door, ere this
Of Art a Tabernacle is;
Nor Art alone. With May is interwove
Seaweed, which Neptune's favourites love.
SWINBURNE should sing in stanzas fleet,
How NELSON may, at Chelsea, meet
ARMSTRONG! Sound conch-shell! Let's obey
Thy Proclamation made for May.
Wild marine whiffs from the salt sea are straying,
And the brine greets us as we go a-Maying.

There's not a London-Teuton but this day
Hath a new welcome for the English May.
Germania from her distant home
In Flora's train this year doth come.
She hath despatched her country's cream
Of things, to make the Cockney dream.
Neptune and she have wooed and plighted troth,
And her we give May-welcome, nothing loth,
As many a welcome we have given
To France, Spain, Italy! War hath riven
Many true hearts, but we're con