The last are birds of feather gay,

Who swear the first are birds of prey;
I'd scare them all, had I my way,

But that might vex you.

At times I've envied, it is true,
That joyous hero, twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets-doux,
And wore a sabre.

The rogue! how tenderly he wound
His arm round one who never frowned;
He loves you well. Now, is he bound
To love my neighbour?

The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favours fascinate the street,
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet
"Twixt tears and laughter:

They crowd the door to see her go—
The bliss of one brings many woe-
Oh! kiss the bride, and I will throw

The old shoe after.

What change in one short afternoon,—
My Charming Neighbour gone, so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon
Slow rising hither?

O lady, wan and marvellous,

How often have we communed thus:
;;

Sweet memories shall dwell with us,
And joy go with her!

ODE TO THE MOON.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go
Over those hoary crests, divinely led !—
Art thou that huntress of the silver bow,
Fabled of old? Or rather dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits thence to gaze
below,

Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine

snow,

Where hunter never climb'd,-secure from

dread?

How many antique fancies have I read

A far-bound galley on its perilous way, Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery

spray ;

Sometimes behold thee glide,

Cluster'd by all thy family of stars,

Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide,

Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow

mars;

Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to

steep,

Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep, To catch the young Endymion asleep,Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch!

Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be! Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named; And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee !— It is too late or thou should'st have my knee

Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,

And not divine the crescent on thy brows!— Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon,