I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,

And shifts the funeral for the dance,
The sceptre for the fetters:
I think that Fortune's favoured guest
May live to gnaw the platters,
And he that wears the purple vest
May wear the rags and tatters.

I think the Tories love to buy
"Your Lordship"s and "your Grace"s,
By loathing common honesty,

And lauding commonplaces:
I think that some are very wise,
And some are very funny,
And some grow rich by telling lies,
And some by telling money.

I think the Whigs are wicked knaves—
(And very like the Tories)—
Who doubt that Britain rules the waves,
And ask the price of glories:

I think that many fret and fume

At what their friends are planning, And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham As much as Mr. Canning.

I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,

Have lighted up too many feuds,
And far too many faggots.

I think, while zealots fast and frown,
And fight for two or seven,
That there are fifty roads to Town,
And rather more to Heaven.

I think that Love is like a play,
Where tears and smiles are blended,
Or like a faithless April day,

Whose shine with shower is ended:
Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade, exposed to losses,
And like a Highland plaid,-all stuff,
And very full of crosses.

I think the world, though dark it be,
Has aye one rapturous pleasure
Concealed in life's monotony,

For those who seek the treasure:
One planet in a starless night,

One blossom on a briar,
One friend not quite a hypocrite,
One woman not a liar!

I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
Rich beggars court St. Stephen;

And Death looks down with nods and smiles,
And makes the odds all even.

I think some die upon the field,
And some upon the billow,

And some are laid beneath a shield,
And some beneath a willow.

I think that very few have sighed
When Fate at last has found them,
Though bitter foes were by their side,
And barren moss around them:
I think that some have died of drought,
And some have died of drinking;
I think that nought is worth a thought,-
And I'm a fool for thinking!

W. M. PRAED.

CCLVIII

HOPE AND WISDOM

YOUTH is the virgin nurse of tender Hope,
And lifts her up and shows a far-off scene:
When Care with heavy tread would interlope,
They call the boys to shout her from the green

Ere long another comes, before whose eyes

Nurseling and nurse alike stand mute and quail : Wisdom to her Hope not one word replies,

:

And Youth lets drop the dear romantic tale.

W. S. LANDOR.

CCLIX

HOPE

GATE that never wholly closes,
Opening yet so oft in vain!

Garden full of thorny roses!

Roses fall, and thorns remain.

Wayward lamp, with flickering lustre
Shining far or shining near,
Seldom words of truth revealing,
Ever showing words of cheer.

Promise-breaker, yet unfailing!

Faithless flatterer! comrade true! Only friend, when traitor proven, Whom we always trust anew.

Courtier strange, whom triumph frighteth, Flying far from pleasure's eye,

Who by sorrow's side alighteth

When all else are passing by.

Syren-singer! ever chanting

Ditties new to burdens old; Precious stone the sages sought for, Turning everything to gold!

True philosopher! imparting
Comfort rich to spirits pained;
Chider of proud triumph's madness,
Pointing to the unattained!

Timid warrior! Doubt, arising,

Scares thee with the slightest breath; Matchless chief! who, fear despising, Tramples on the darts of death!

O'er the grave, past Time's pursuing,
Far thy flashing glory streams,
Too unswerving, too resplendent,

For a child of idle dreams.

Still, life's fitful vigil keeping,

Feed the flame and trim the light: Hope's the lamp I'll take for sleeping When I wish the world good-night.

E. C. JONES.

CCLX

EARTHLY AND HEAVENLY HOPE

REFLECTED on the lake I love

To see the stars of evening glow, So tranquil in the heavens above,

So restless in the wave below.