O bardlings of Young England! withhold, we beseech you, from winsome _Maga_, your verse-offerings, while thus the sons of song, evoked from the visionary land, coming and going like shadows, smile to let drop at her feet the scrolls of their inspiration. Poetry indeed! "You lisp in numbers, for the numbers come." But in big boobies a lisp is only less loathsome than a burr. Some of you have both, and therefore deserve to die. Readers beloved! prefer you not such sweet, strong strains as these sounded by Dryden, when he had nearly counted threescore and ten? "Yet was not his natural force abated"--while his sense of beauty, instructed and refined by meditations that deepen amongst life's evening shades, became holier within sight of the grave. You will thank us for another quotation; for much do we fear, O lady fair! that thou hast no copy of Dryden in thy _boudoir_, and yet life is fast flowing on with thee, for thou art--nay, there's no denying--yea, thou art--in thy twentieth year--and _if you continue to refuse our advice_--will soon be an old woman. "The Lady of the Leaf ordain'd a feast, And made the Lady of the Flower her guest: When lo! a bower ascended on the plain, With sudden seats adorn'd, and large for either train. This bower was near my pleasant arbour placed, That I could hear and see whatever pass'd: The ladies sat with each a knight between, Distinguish'd by their colours, white and green; The vanquish'd party with the victors join'd, Nor wanted sweet discourse, the banquet of the mind. Meantime the minstrels play'd on either side, Vain of their art, and for the mastery vied. The sweet contention lasted for an hour, And reach'd my secret arbour from the bower. The sun was set; and Vesper, to supply His absent beams, had lighted up the sky: When Philomel, officious all the day To sing the service of th' ensuing May, Fled from her laurel shade, and wing'd her flight Directly to the queen array'd in white; And hopping, sat familiar on her hand, A new musician, and increased the band. "The goldfinch, who, to shun the scalding heat, Had changed the medlar for a safer seat, And hid in bushes 'scaped the bitter shower, Now perch'd upon the Lady of the Flower; And either songster holding out their throats, And folding up their wings, renew'd their notes; As if all day, preluding to the fight, They only had rehearsed, to sing by night. The banquet ended, and the battle done, They danced by starlight and the friendly moon: And when they were to part, the laureat queen Supplied with steeds the lady of the green, Her and her train conducting on the way, The moon to follow, and avoid the day."