My knife and fork shall play; But better wine and better men I shall not meet in May.

And though, good friend, with whom I dine,

Your honest head is gray, And, like this grizzled head of mine, Has seen its last of May;

Yet, with a heart that's ever kind,

A gentle spirit gay, You've spring perennial in your mind, And round you make a May!

On dreary heath no more I pine, But left my cheerless solitude,

To deck the breast of Caroline. Alas our days are brief at best,

Nor long I fear will mine endure, Though shelter'd here upon a breast So gentle and so pure.

It draws the fragrance from my leaves,
It robs me of my sweetest breath,
And every time it falls and heaves,
It warns me of my coming death.
But one I know would glad forego
All joys of life to be as I;

An hour to rest on that sweet breast,
And then, contented, die!

who

Now they heap the fatal pyre,
And the torch of death they light:
Ah! 'tis hard to die of fire!

Who will shield the captive knight?
Round the stake with fiendish cry
Wheel and dance the savage crowd,
Cold the victim's mien, and proud,
And his breast is bared to die.
Who will shield the fearless heart?

Who avert the murderous blade? From the throng, with sudden start,

See there springs an Indian maid. Quick she stands before the knight, "Loose the chain, unbind the ring, I am daughter of the king, And I claim the Indian right!"

Dauntlessly aside she flings

Lifted axe and thirsty knife; Fondly to his heart she clings, And her bosom guards his life! In the woods of Powhattan,

Still 'tis told by Indian fires, How a daughter of their sires Saved the captive Englishman.

my nurse's knee!

POCAHONTAS.

WEARIED arm and broken sword Wage in vain the desperate fight : Round him press a countless horde, He is but a single knight.

In peril to be ever near;
Whate'er of ill or woe betide,
To bear it clinging at his side;
The poisoned stroke of fate to ward,
His bosom with my own to guard:
Ah! could it spare a pang to his,
It could not know a purer bliss!
'Twould gladden as it felt the smart,
And thank the hand that flung the
dart!

THRILL AND GLOW?

My toils, my pleasures, every one,
I find are stale, and dull, and slow;
And yesterday, when work was done,
I felt myself so sad and low,
I could have seized a sentry's gun

My wearied brains out out to blow. What is it makes my blood to run? What makes my heart to beat and glow?

My notes of hand are burnt, perhaps?
Some one has paid my tailor's bill?
No: every morn the tailor raps;

My IO U's are extant still.
I still am prey of debt and dun ;

My elder brother's stout and well. What is it makes my blood to run? What makes my heart to glow and swell?

I know my chief's distrust and hate;
He says I'm lazy, and I shirk.
Ah! had I genius like the late

Right Honorable Edmund Burke !

I know it is, he hates me so. What is it makes my blood to run,

And all my heart to swell and glow?

Why, why is all so bright and gay? There is no change, there is no

cause;

My office-time I found to-day

Disgusting as it ever was.

At three, I went and tried the Clubs, And yawned and saunter'd to and fro;

And now my heart jumps up and throbs,

And all my soul is in a glow.

At half-past four I had the cab;

I drove as hard as I could go. The London sky was dirty drab,

And dirty brown the London snow. And as I rattled in a cant

er down by dear old Bolton Row, A something made my heart to pant, And caused my cheek to flush and glow.

What could it be that made me find

Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club? Why was it that I laughed and grinned

At whist, although I lost the rub? What was it made me drink like mad Thirteen small glasses of Curaço? That made my inmost heart so glad, And every fibre thrill and glow?

She's home again! she's home, she's

home!

Away all cares and griefs and pain ; I knew she would she's back from Rome;

She's home again! she's home again! "The family's gone abroad," they said, September last-they told me so; Since then my lonely heart is dead,

My blood I think's forgot to flow.

She's home again! away all care!
O fairest form the world can show!
O beaming eyes! O golden hair!
O tender voice, that breathes so low!
O gentlest, softest, purest heart!
O joy, O hope!
My tiger, ho!'
Fitz-Clarence said; we saw him

He galloped down to Bolton Row.

THE MERRY BARD.

ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-wasted and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous. One of my eyes is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly gray. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.

There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming.

There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.

The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul.

I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight. Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.

THE CAÏQUE.

YONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek, Paddle the swift caïque.

Thou brawny oarsman with the sunburnt cheek,

Quick for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak.

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,
Swift bending to your oars.
Beneath the melancholy sycamores,
Hark! what a ravishing note the love-
lorn Bulbul pours.

Behold, the boughs seem quivering with delight,

The stars themselves more bright, As mid the waving branches out of sight The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

still,

I could not have my fill.

"How comes," I said, "such music to his bill?

Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill."

Amidst this gorgeous chivalry, A form I saw was like to thee,

My love my Nora!

Bird disclose,

"But looked upon the Rose; And in the garden where the loved

one grows,

I straightway did begin sweet music to compose."

"O bird of song, there's one in this caïque

The Rose would also seek, So he might learn like you to love and speak."

Then answered me the bird of dusky beak,

"The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek."

Dost love her, Nora?