The omne bene—­Christmas come! 
The prize of merit, won for home—­
  Merit had prizes then! 
But now I write for days and days,
For fame—­a deal of empty praise,
  Without the silver pen!

XVI.

Then “home, sweet home!” the crowded coach—­
The joyous shout—­the loud approach—­
  The winding horns like rams’! 
The meeting sweet that made me thrill,
The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still,
  No ‘satis’ to the ’jams’!—­

XVII.

When that I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
  My mates were blithe and kind! 
No wonder that I sometimes sigh,
And dash the tear-drop from my eye,
  To cast a look behind!

BALLAD.

It was not in the Winter
  Our loving lot was cast;
It was the Time of Roses,—­
  We plucked them as we passed!

That churlish season never frown’d
  On early lovers yet:—­
Oh, no—­the world was newly crown’d
  With flowers when first we met!

’Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
  But still you held me fast;
It was the Time of Roses,—­
  We pluck’d them as we pass’d.—­

What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
  That tears began to stud? 
And when I ask’d the like of Love,
  You snatched a damask bud;

And oped it to the dainty core,
  Still glowing to the last.—­
It was the Time of Roses,—­
  We plucked them as we pass’d!

TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY.

I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring,
Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: 
“Fly through the world, and I will follow thee,
Only for looks that may turn back on me;

“Only for roses that your chance may throw—­
Though withered—­Twill wear them on my brow,
To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain,—­
Warm’d with such love, that they will bloom again.”

“Thy love before thee, I must tread behind,
Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind;
But trust not all her fondness, though it seem,
Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream.”

“Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet;
But smiles betray, and music sings deceit;
And words speak false;—­yet, if they welcome prove,
I’ll be their echo, and repeat their love.”

“Only if waken’d to sad truth, at last,
The bitterness to come, and sweetness past;
When thou art vext, then turn again, and see
Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee.”

FLOWERS.

I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun;
The tulip is a courtly queen,
Whom, therefore, I will shun;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun;—­
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.