The little princes too are there, Those pure and pretty peers; But oh! the scene, to others fair, To me is dimmed with tears. One speck upon this earthly sun, That soon, alas! must fade, One little spot, and only one, Throws on my heart a shade. Of all the myriads met to-day, Oh! tell me which is she The gentle child I saw at play By Kensington’s green tree. My eye it rests on every spot, Ladye and cavalier; But that fair child, I see her not Of all the thousands here. She is not here――the reason why[46] Is neither there nor here; At home she heaves the infant sigh, And dries the childish tear. The humblest maid will murmur when Refused its cup of bliss; How must a princess suffer then, To lose a sight like this! Thus, mid the rich magnificence, A vision sad and wild Presents unto my inmost sense An image of that child. ――――:o:―――― A REFLECTION. (_Rev. George Crabbe._) [The author of this “Reflection,” who would have given a “Tale of the _Hall_,” but that it happened to be closed this Coronation, should be represented by a river side, moralizing on the state of some Crabs that have just been captured, and quite insensible to the increasing tide which is washing over him. He should be figured as a poet prone to consider things “too curiously”――as one who, if he had a centipede to describe, would dissect you every separate leg, and instruct you in its anatomy; who would enlist your sympathies for a beggar by painting the shape and colour of every patch upon his vest, and whose picture of a battle would be merely the Army-List turned into rhyme. A workhouse should be in the centre of the picture, with a prison on one side, and an hospital on the other.] Turn from the court your eyes, and then explore Those gloomier courts where dwell the pining poor. Just think what hungry families might dine On that laced jacket, framed of superfine. How large a nation may a little net Confine――what traps are in those trappings set! Will the King give, what he has gained, a crown, To Jones, Clark, Thompson, Jackson, Smith, or Brown? All penceless pockets theirs――the man with cakes For them stands still, or eats the tarts he makes. Yet see yon lady; fifty pearls at least Circle her arms, and might an army feast. That zone for which a princess might have pined, Her waist confining, seems to waste consigned. On those red coats, ten buttons meet the view; Ten plated buttons; ten divide by two, It leaves you five, and five we know would do. These five, if sold, would buy yon lad a hat, Provide a dinner, and a tea to that. ――――:o:―――― A MELODY. (MOORISH.)