Seventeen rose-buds in a ring, Thick with sister flowers beset, In a fragrant coronet, Lucy's servants this day bring. Be it the birthday wreath she wears Fresh and fair, and symbolling The young number of her years, The sweet blushes of her spring. Types of youth and love and hope! Friendly hearts your mistress greet, Be you ever fair and sweet, And grow lovelier as you ope! Gentle nursling, fenced about With fond care, and guarded so, Scarce you've heard of storms without, Frosts that bite, or winds that blow! Kindly has your life begun, And we pray that heaven may send To our floweret a warm sun, A calm summer, a sweet end. And where'er shall be her home, May she decorate the place; Still expending into bloom, And developing in grace. PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT As on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook As though it were a novel-book Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My lord the County's page is. A pleasant place for such a pair! The fields lie basking in the glare; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens. Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens. It is too hot the pace to keep; To climb the turret is too steep; My lord the earl is dozing deep, His noonday dinner over. The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep); And so from out the gate they creep, And cross the fields of clover. Their lines into the brook they launch; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion: He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection! O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture. What care has _she_ for line or hook? She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture. O loving pair! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always, The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet your beholder.