Ah! lilac lady, step from your gold frame,
Between that starched old Bishop and the dame
In awe-inspiring ruff. We'll brave their ire
And trip a minuet. You will not?--Fie!
Those mocking lips half make me wish that I,
Her grandson, might have been my own grandsire.

_Trinity Tablet_.


~A Picture.~

On spinet old, Clarissa plays
The melodies of by-gone days.
Forgotten fugue, a solemn tune,
The bars of stately rigadoon.
With head bent down to scan each note,
A crimson ribbon round her throat,
The very birds to sing forget
As some old-fashioned minuet
Clarissa plays.

King George long since has passed away,
And minuets have had their day.
Within a hidden attic nook
Covered with dust, her music-book.
Gone are the keys her fingers pressed.
The bunch of roses at her breast.
But still, unmindful of time's flight,