"No, no, brave Clifford," Edward said, "No lists to-day for thee, Thy gallant deeds beside the Loire Well prove thy chivalry. "Sir Guy, Sir Henry, and the rest Have well acquit their arms, But Edward's thanks are Clifford's due As well as Mary's charms. "My lord, you are her sire," he said, "Give kind consent and free, And who denies our Clifford's right Shall ride a tilt with me." Gay spake the prince, gay laugh'd the throng, And Mary said not nay, And bright with smile, and dance, and song, Went down the festal day. And when Lord Clifford to the board Led down his Mary fair, A knot of pinks was in his cap, A knot was in her hair. For it had been their sign of love. And loved by them was still, Till death came gently on their heads And bowed them to his will. And now though years have passed away, And all that years have seen, And Clifford's deeds and Mary's charms Are as they ne'er had been. Some wind, as if in memory, Has borne the seeds on high, To deck the ruin's crumbling walls, And catch the passing eye. They tell a tale to those who hear, For beauty, strength, and power, Are but the idlesse of a day, More short-lived than a flower. Joy on, joy on, then, whilst ye may, Nor waste the moments dear, Nor give yourselves a cause to sigh, Nor teach to shed a tear. SCRAPS.--No. II. LINES TO A WITHERED ROSE. I cast thee from me, poor child of day Like the lost heart that bore thee now wither'd and dead, To open no more in the sunshiny ray. Thy fragrance exhausted, thy loveliness fled. 'Tis the bright and the happy, the fresh and the gay, Alone that are fitted to flaunt in man's sight, When withered, far better to cast them away, Than to mock their dull hues with the glitter of light. No culture can ever restore thee thy bloom, Or waken thy odour, or raise up thy head, The wretch's last refuge, the dust and the tomb, Is all I can give, now thy sweetness has fled. O who would live on, when life's brightness is past, When the heart has lost all that once bade it beat high? When hopes still prove false, and when joys never last, 'Tis better to wither--'tis better to die. I cast thee from me--away to the earth, More happy than others that must not depart, Doom'd to bear on their grief 'neath the semblance of mirth, With silence of feeling, and deadness of heart. SCRAPS.--No. III. DESULTORY CONVERSATIONS WITH THE MAN IN THE MOON. BY A TRAVELLED GENTLEMAN.