Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our Bard

Worked for another ten years—hard. Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on; New stars shot up, shone out, were gone ; Before his second Volume came

His Critics had forgot his Name:

And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!

They tried and tested him, no less,—
The pure Assayers of the Press.

Said A.-The Author, may in Time
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.-These little Songs display
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.

There is no Moral to this Tale.

A FANCY FROM FONTENELLE

"De mémoires de Rose on n'a point vu mourir le Jardinier.” The Rose in the garden slipped her bud, And she laughed in the pride of her youthful blood, As she thought of the Gardener standing by— "He is old, so old! And he soon must die!"

The full Rose waxed in the warm June air,

And she spread and spread till her heart lay bare; And she laughed once more as she heard his tread"He is older now! He will soon be dead!"

But the breeze of the morning blew, and found
That the leaves of the blown Rose strewed the ground;

And he came at noon, that Gardener old,
And he raked them softly under the mould.

And I wove the thing to a random rhyme,
For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener Time.

BEFORE SEDAN

"The dead hand clasped a letter."

Special Correspondence.

Here, in this leafy place,

Quiet he lies,

Cold, with his sightless face
Turned to the skies;

'Tis but another dead;

All you can say is said.

Carry his body hence,

Kings must have slaves;

Kings climb to eminence

Over men's graves:

So this man's eye is dim ;-
Throw the earth over him.

What was the white you touched,

There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched

Tight ere he died ;— Message or wish, may be ;

Smooth the folds out and see.

Hardly the worst of us

Here could have smiled!

Only the tremulous

Words of a child;— Prattle, that has for stops

Just a few ruddy drops.

Their footmen go before them,

With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She takes her buckled shoon,

When we go out a-courting

Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's

Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's!
They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

The breath of heath and furze,
When breezes blow at morning,
Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's!
They're painted to the eyes;