Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin;
Here lips were woo'd, perhaps, in transport tender;
Some may have chuck'd what was a dimpled chin,
And never had
my doubt about its gender!

Did she live yesterday or ages back?

What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black,

Poor little head! that long has done with aching?

It may have held (to shoot some random shots)
Thy brains, Eliza Fry, or Baron Byron's;
The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Dr. Watts,—
Two quoted bards! two philanthropic syrens!

But this I surely knew before I closed

The bargain on the morning that I bought it;

It was not half so bad as some supposed,
Nor quite as good as many may have thought it.

Who love, can need no special type of death;

Death steals his icy hand where Love reposes. Alas for love, alas for fleeting breath,

Immortelles bloom with Beauty's bridal roses.

O, true love mine, what lines of care are these?
The heart still lingers with its golden hours,
But fading tints are on the chestnut trees,

And where is all that lavish wealth of flowers?

The end is near. Life lacks what once it gave,

Yet death has promises that call for praises;
A very worthless rogue may dig the grave,

But hands unseen will dress the turf with daisies.

F. L. LAMPSON.

CCLXVI

THINK NOT OF THE FUTURE

THINK not of the future, the prospect is uncertain;

Laugh away the present, while laughing hours remain : Those who gaze too boldly through Time's mystic curtain

Soon will wish to close it, and dream of joy again. I, like thee, was happy, and, on hope relying,

Thought the present pleasure might revive again ;

But receive my counsel! time is always flying,

Then laugh away the present, while laughing hours remain.

I have felt unkindness, keen as that which hurts thee;
I have met with friendship fickle as the wind;
Take what friendship offers ere its warmth deserts thee;
Well I know the kindest may not long be kind.

Would you waste the pleasure of the summer season,
Thinking that the winter must return again?

If our summer's fleeting, surely that's a reason

For laughing off the present, while laughing hours remain.

T. HAYNES BAYLY.

CCLXVII

A LIFE IN THE COUNTRY

"OH! a life in the country how joyous,
How ineffably charming it is;
With no ill-mannered crowds to annoy us
Nor odious neighbours to quiz!"

So murmured the beautiful Harriet

To the fondly affectionate Brown,

As they rolled in the flame-coloured chariot
From the nasty detestable town:

Singing, "Oh, a life in the country how joyous,
How ineffably charming it is!"

"I shall take a portfolio quite full
Of the sweetest conceivable glees;
And at times manufacture delightful

Little Odes to the doves on the trees.
There'll be dear little stockingless wretches
In those hats that are so picturesque,
Who will make the deliciousest sketches,

Which I'll place in my Theodore's desk.

"Then how pleasant to study the habits

Of the creatures we meet as we roam: And perhaps keep a couple of rabbits,

Or some fish and a bullfinch at home! The larks, when the summer has brought 'em, Will sing overtures quite like Mozart's, And the black-berries, dear, in the autumn Will make the most exquisite tarts.

"The bells of the sheep will be ringing All day amid sweet-scented showers, As we sit by some rivulet singing

About May and her beautiful bowers. We'll take intellectual rambles

In those balm-laden evenings of June, And say it reminds one of Campbell's (Or somebody's) lines to the moon."

But these charms began shortly to pall on
The taste of the gay Mrs. Brown ;
She hadn't a body to call on,

Nor a soul that could make up a gown.

She was yearning to see her relations,

And besides had a troublesome cough;
And in fact she was losing all patience,
And exclaimed, "We must really be off,
Though a life in the country so joyous,
So ineffably charming it is.

"But this morning I noticed a beetle
Crawl along on the dining-room floor,
If we stay till the summer, the heat 'll
Infallibly bring out some more.
Now few have a greater objection

To beetles than Harriet Brown :
And, my dear, I think, on reflection-
I should like to go back to the town."

C. S. CALVERLEY.

CCLXVIII

MY CREAM-COLOURED PONIES

Go order my ponies; so brilliant a Sunday
Is certain to summon forth all the élite;

And cits who work six days, and revel but one day,

Will trudge to the West End from Bishopsgate Street : See! two lines of carriages almost extending

The whole way from Grosvenor to Cumberland Gate; The Duchess has bow'd to me! how condescending ' I came opportunely-I thought I was late.

I'm certain my ponies, my cream-colour'd ponies,
Will cause a sensation wherever I go ;
My page, in his little green jacket, alone is

The wonder of all! Oh, I hope he won't grow!