We love the "rare old days and rich" That poesy has painted; We mourn the "good old times" with which We never were acquainted. Last night a lady tried to prove (And not a lady youthful): "Ah, once it was no crime to love, Nor folly to be truthful!" Absurd! Then dames in castles dwelt, Nor dared to show their noses: Then passion that could not be spelt, Was hinted at in posies. Such shifts make modern Cupid laugh: For sweethearts, in love's tremor, Now tell their vows by telegraph-- And go off in the steamer! The earth is still our Mother Earth-- Young shepherds still fling capers In flowery groves that ring with mirth-- Where old ones read the papers. Romance, as tender and as true, Our Isle has never quitted: So lads and lasses when they woo Are hardly to be pitied! Oh, yes! young love is lovely yet-- With faith and honour plighted: I love to see a pair so met-- Youth--Beauty--all united. Such dear ones may they ever wear The roses Fortune gave them: Ah, know we such a Blessed Pair? I think we do! GOD SAVE THEM! Our lot is cast on pleasant days, In not unpleasant places-- Young ladies now have pretty ways, As well as pretty faces; So never sigh for what has been, And let us cease complaining That we have loved when Our Dear Queen Victoria was reigning! GERALDINE GREEN. I. THE SERENADE. Light slumber is quitting The eyelids it pressed, The fairies are flitting, Who charmed thee to rest: Where night-dews were falling Now feeds the wild bee, The starling is calling, My Darling, for thee. The wavelets are crisper That sway the shy fern, The leaves fondly whisper, "We wait thy return." Arise then, and hazy Distrust from thee fling, For sorrows that crazy To-morrows may bring. A vague yearning smote us-- But wake not to weep, My bark, love, shall float us Across the still deep, To isles where the lotos, Erst lulled thee to sleep. II. MY LIFE IS A At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G----, How aimless, how wretched an exile is he! Promenades are not even prunella and leather To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together. He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands, He traces a "Geraldine G." on the sands, Only "G!" though her loved patronymic is "Green,"-- I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine. The fortunes of men have a time and a tide, And Fate, the old Fury, will not be denied; That name was, of course, soon wiped out by the sea,-- She jilted the exile, did Geraldine G.