THOMAS HOOD THE YOUNGER.

The autumn upon us was rushing, The Parks were deserted and lone— The streets were unpeopled and lone; My foot through the sere leaves was brushing, That over the pathway were strown— By the wind in its wanderings strown. I sighed—for my feelings were gushing Round Mnemosyne's porphyry throne, Like lava liquescent lay gushing, And rose to the porphyry throne— To the filigree footstool were gushing, That stands on the steps of that throne— On the stolid stone steps of that throne! I cried—'Shall the winter-leaves fret us?' Oh, turn—we must turn to the fruit, To the freshness and force of the fruit! To the gifts wherewith Autumn has met us— Her music that never grows mute (That maunders but never grows mute), The tendrils the vine branches net us, The lily, the lettuce, the lute— The esculent, succulent lettuce, And the languishing lily, and lute;— Yes;—the lotos-like leaves of the lettuce; Late lily and lingering lute. Then come—let us fly from the city! Let us travel in orient isles— In the purple of orient isles— Oh, bear me—yes, bear me in pity To climes where a sun ever smiles— Ever smoothly and speciously smiles! Where the swarth-browed Arabian's wild ditty Enhances pyramidal piles: Where his wild, weird, and wonderful ditty Awakens pyramidal piles— Yes:—his pointless perpetual ditty Perplexes pyramidal piles!

I count it true which sages teach— That passion sways not with repose, That love, confounding these with those, Is ever welding each with each. And so when time has ebbed away, Like childish wreaths too lightly held, The song of immemorial eld Shall moan about the belted bay, Where slant Orion slopes his star To swelter in the rolling seas, Till slowly widening by degrees, The grey climbs upward from afar, And golden youth and passion stray Along the ridges of the strand— Not far apart, but hand in hand— With all the darkness danced away!

Lady Clara Vere de Vere! I hardly know what I must say, But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother I'm to be Queen of the May! I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave, Let me rave! Whole weeks and months, early and late, To win his love I lay in wait. Oh, the Earl was fair to see, As fair as any man could be:— The wind is howling in turret and tree! We two shall be wed to-morrow morn, And I shall be the Lady Clare, And when my marriage morn shall fall I hardly know what I shall wear. But I shan't say 'my life is dreary,' And sadly hang my head, With the remark, 'I'm very weary, And wish that I were dead.' But on my husband's arm I'll lean, And roundly waste his plenteous gold, Passing the honeymoon serene In that new world which is the old. For down we'll go and take the boat Beside St. Katherine's Docks afloat, Which round about its prow has wrote— 'The Lady of Shalotter' (Mondays and Thursdays—Captain Foat), Bound for the Dam of Rotter. (From Ten Hours, or the Warbling Wag'ner. By Owing Merrythief.)

Where'er there's a thistle to feed a linnet And linnets are plenty, thistles rife— Or an acorn-cup to catch dew-drops in it There's ample promise of further life. Now, mark how we begin it. For linnets will follow, if linnets are minded, As blows the white-feather parachute; And ships will reel by the tempest blinded— Aye, ships and shiploads of men to boot! How deep whole fleets you'll find hid. And we blow the thistle-down hither and thither Forgetful of linnets, and men, and God. The dew! for its want an oak will wither— By the dull hoof into the dust is trod, And then who strikes the cither? But thistles were only for donkeys intended, And that donkeys are common enough is clear, And that drop! what a vessel it might have befriended, Does it add any flavour to Glugabib's beer? Well, there's my musing ended.