(For The Mirror.)

  Waken, lords and ladies gay,
  On the mountain dawns the day,
  All the jolly chase is here,
  With hawk and horse, and hunting spear;
  Hounds are in their couples yelling,
  Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
  Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
  “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

  Waken, lords and ladies gay,
  The mist has left the mountain grey,
  Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
  Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
  And foresters have busy been,
  To track the buck in thicket green;
  Now we come to chant our lay,
  “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

  Waken, lords and ladies gay,
  To the green wood haste away,
  We can show you where he lies,
  Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
  We can show the marks he made
  When ’gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
  You shall see him brought to bay. 
  “Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

  Louder, louder, chant the lay,
  Waken, lords and ladies say,
  Tell them youth, and mirth and glee,
  Run a course as well as we,
  Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
  Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk? 
  Think of this, without delay,
  Gentle lords and ladies gay.

C.C.

* * * * *

THE SKETCH-BOOK

* * * * *

PHYSIOGNOMY OF HOUSES.

(For The Mirror.)

Houses undoubtedly present to the eye of fancy, an appearance analogous to physiognomical expression in men.  The remark has been made by more acute observers than myself.

Look at that beetle-browed, solemn looking mansion with a ponderous hat-roof—­I mean of slates, garnished with bay windows—­observe its heavy jaws of areas, its hard, close mouth of a door; its dark, deep sunken eyes of windows peering out from the heavy brow of dark stone coping that supports the slate hat in question:  what a contrast to the spruce mock gentility of its neighbour, with a stand-up collar of white steps, a varnished face, and a light, jaunty, yet stiff air, like a city apprentice in his best clothes.

See the cap on the temple of that Chinese Mandarin, poking above yon clump of firs, with its bell furniture; he seems pondering on the aphorisms of Confucius, regardless of that booby faced conservatory, whose bald, rounded pate glitters in the sun.  Ah! what have we here; a spruce masquerader in yellow straw hat, trying to look rural with as much success as a reed thatched summer house.  Stand in this quiet nook a few hours, and give us the shadow of your mushroom covering.