And there the king and I were standing, face to face

together, I said, “How is your majesty ?—it's mighty pleasant

weather."

And then the people push'd me on! I did n't half like

thatI'm sure the king had half a mind to bid me stop and But looking on, I saw the queen! I'm sure I hope and She did n't see the king kiss me! and yet I think she

chat;

trust

must.

too ;

I curtsey'd to her majesty, the proper thing to do, And seeing ladies standing round, I curtsey'd to them I honour maids of honour so, I wish'd to be polite, And the queen and all the ladies smiled, which proved

that I was right.

I knew (though ne'er at court before !) well what I

was about Of course I did not turn my back, but tried to sidlo

out; But walking, I tripp'd up and fell—(they make their

trains so big!) And, catching at the first thing near, pull’d off a lady's

wig!

And then I fainted dead away!-a dreadful thing to

doUntil I found myself at home, no earthly thing I

knew! I've graced a court! indeed I'll add by way of being

witty, 'T was in court that father lived a back court in the city!

BAYLEY.

WAS I RIGHT, OR WAS I NOT?

Was I right, or was I not?

The age exact I cannot tell,
But 't was sometime in teens, I wot,

That I came out a dashing belle.
My mother call'd me “harebrain'd chit,”

But that I needed ne'er a jot,
For little Miss must flirt a bit,

Was I right, or was I not?

Away I sparkled in the ring;

And soon was known as false and fair: Oh! 't is a dear delightful thing

When first we make a swain despair. There was young Frederick all on fire,

Who vow'd and swore-I know not what Of course I left him to expire.

Was I right, or was I not?

Dear me! I felt a trifle sad,
When all cried out “what have

you

done!" For, sure enough, I loved the lad:

But who'd take up with number one? So vive l'amour! I gaily cried,

And he, poor wretch, was soon forgot,For I'd a hundred sparks beside.

Was I right, or was I not?

Some shook their heads, but I had skill:

Lovers and friends I went on winning, What will you have? I flirted still,

Because I flirted at beginning.
A long gay train I led away;

Young Cupid sure was in the plot ;
I thought the spell would last for ayo:-

Was I right, or was I not?

But now 't is come into my head

That I must grow discreet and sage,
For there are hints my charms have fled,

And I approach "a certain age.”
So the next offer—that's my plan-

I'll nail, decisive on the spot;
"Tis time that I'd secured my man.

Am I right, or am I not?
But ah! though gladly I'd say “ Yes,".

The looks of all the men say "No."
Who would have thought 't would come to this?

But mother says, “ I told you so!"
Friends, lovers, danglers, now are gone:

Not one is left of all the lot,
And I'm a “maiden all forlorn!"
Is it right, or is it not ? :

ANON.

THE DYING SPEECH OF FALIERO.

I SPEAK to Time and to Eternity,
Of which I grow a portion, not to man.
Ye elements in which to be resolved
I hasten, let my voice be as a spirit
Upon you! Ye blue waves! which bore my banner,
Ye winds! which flutter'd o'er as if you loved it,
And fill'd my swelling sails as they were wafted
To many a triumph! Thou, my native earth,
Which I have bled for, and thou foreign earth,
Which drank this willing blood from many a wound!
Ye stones, in which my gore will not sink, but
Reek up to Heaven! Ye skies which will receive

it! Thou sun! which shinest on these things, and

Thou!
Who kindlest and who quenchest suns !-attest :

I am not innocentbut are these guiltless ?
I perish, but not unavenged; far ages
Float up from the abyss of time to be,
And show these eyes, before they close, the doom
Of this proud city, and I leave my curse
On her and her's for ever:

-Yes, the hours
Are silently engendering of the day,
When she who built ’gainst Attila a bulwark,
Shall yield, and bloodlessly and basely yield
Unto á bastard Attila, without
Shedding so much blood in her last defence
As these old veins, oft drain'd in shielding her,
Shall pour in sacrifice. She shall be bought
And sold, and be an appanage to those
Who shall despise her! —She shall stoop to be
A province for an empire, petty town
In lieu of capital, with slaves for senates,
Beggars for nobles, panders for a people!
Then, when the Hebrew's in thy palaces,
The Hun in thy high places, and the Greek
Walks o'er thy mart, and smiles on it for his!
When thy patricians beg their bitter bread
In narrow streets, and in their shameful need
Make their nobility a plea for pity:
Then, when the few who still retain a wreck
Of their great fathers' heritage shall fawn
Round a barbarian Vice of King's Vice-gerent,
Even in the palace where they sway'd as sovereigns,
Even in the palace where they slew their sovereign,
Proud of some name they have disgraced, or sprung
From an adultress boastful of her guilt
With some large gondolier or foreign soldier,
Shall bear about their bastardy in triumph
To the third spurious generation ;-when
Thy sons are in the lowest scale of being,
Slaves turn'd o'er to the vanquish'd by the victors,
Despised by cowards for still greater cowardice,
And scorn'd even by the vicious for such vices
As, in the monstrous grasp of their conception,
Defy all codes to image or to name them;

Then, when of Cyprus, now thy subject kingdom,
All thine inheritance shall be her shame,
Entail'd on thy less virtuous daughters, grown
A wider proverb for worse prostitution;
When all the ills of conquer'd states shall cling thee,
Vice without splendour, sin without relief
Even from the gloss of love to smooth it o'er,
But in its stead coarse lusts of habitude,
Prurient yet passionless, cold studied lewdness,
Depraving nature's frailty to an art;-
When these and more are heavy on thee, when
Smiles without mirth, and pastimes without pleasure,
Youth without honour, age without respect,
Meanness and weakness,

and a sense of woe 'Gainst which thou wilt not strive, and dar'st not

murmur, Have made thee last and worst of peopled deserts ; Then, in the last gasp of thine agony, Amidst thy many murders, think of mine! Thou den of drunkards with the blood of princes ! Gehenna of the waters ! thou sea Sodom! Thus I devote thee to the infernal gods! Thee and thy serpent seed!

Slave, do thine office; Strike as I struck the foe! strike as I would Have struck those tyrants ! Strike deep as my curse! Strike--and but once!

BYRON.

TO AUTUMN.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves