Volume 103 — TO A SUMMER FLOWER.

Oh, lovely flower sent from afar, Like sunlight to this world of ours, What art thou but a golden star, A priceless gem amongst the flowers? Alas, all earthly things must die, Thou, too, fair yellow flower must fade, Thou wilt not charm an Artist's eye, Upon the breast of some fair maid! Ah, no, thine is a nobler fate, Unlike the lily or the rose, Thou passest to a higher state When in sad death thy petals close: For then thine outward form, grown pale Is changed to what, at first scarce seen, Is still thyself, so fair, so frail, A little fruit of tender green! When quite matured, how very choice Thy juicy flavour; who can then Sing all thy worth with mortal voice, Or write thy praise with mortal pen. There, take it gently from the ground, O costermonger, to thy barrow, And shout, with loud discordant sound, The praise of Vegetable Marrow!

Faintly it wakes at the even chime, The appetite long past its prime. The supper-room at the Club looks dim. What shall I "peck" for an epicure's whim? Roe, Bloater's Roe! That's the brief repast To tickle the palate, to break the fast! They may prate of the pleasures of "early purl," Of the frizzled rasher's seductive curl, But, when I fear I can munch no more, When the thought of banquets becomes a bore, Roe, Bloater's Roe, upon toast they cast, And nausea's fled, and repletion's past! Yes Bloater's Roe—upon toast. Ah, boon! That stayeth satiety, late or soon. Best of bonnes bouches, that all seasons fits! The tenderest tickler of all tit-bits! Roe, Bloater's Roe! O chef, grill fast, And prepare my palate its pet repast!