"'Twas I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of Navarre; And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles afar? The hero of a hundred fights--" Then Wellington up sprung, "Ho, silence in the ranks, I say! Sit down and hold your tongue! "By heaven, thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling lay, Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! 'Tis hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot dine. Nurse, take her Royal Highness, here! Sir Robert, pass the wine!" "No Laureate need we at our board!" then spoke the Lord of Vaux; "Here's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel song, I know. Even I myself--" Then rose the cry--"A song, a song from Brougham!" He sang,--and straightway found himself alone within the room. The Bard of Erin's Lament. BY T--- M---RE, ESQ. Oh, weep for the hours, when the little blind boy Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower; When I dipped my light wings in the nectar of joy, And soared in the sunshine, the moth of the hour! From beauty to beauty I passed, like the wind; Now fondled the lily, now toyed with the Rose; And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, Was forsook for another ere evening's close. I sighed not for honour, I cared not for fame, While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest; They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, And the bosom of Beauty still pillowed my rest: And the harp of my country--neglected it slept-- In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs; From Love's Sybarite dreams I aroused me, and swept Its chords to the tale of her glories and wrongs. But weep for the hour!--Life's summer is past, And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast, Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. No, its ashes are dead--and, alas! Love or Song No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, Like a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, And a seat by the fire _tete-a-tete_ with a friend. The Laureate. BY A--- T---. Who would not be The Laureate bold, With his butt of sherry To keep him merry, And nothing to do but to pocket his gold? 'Tis I would be the Laureate bold! When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord; But I'd lie on my back on the smooth greensward With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, And the cool wind blowing upon my breast, And I'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, And watch the clouds that are listless as I, Lazily, lazily! And I'd pick the moss and the daisies white, And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite; And I'd let my fancies roam abroad In search of a hint for a birthday ode, Crazily, crazily!