Can you tell me who was she, Mistress of the flowery wreath, And the anagram beneath — The mysterious KE?

"Full a hundred years are gone
Since the little beacon shone
From a Venice balcony:
There, on summer nights, it hung,
And her lovers came and sung
To their beautiful K E.

"Hush in the canal below
Don't you hear the plash of oars
Underneath the lantern's glow,
And a thrilling voice begins
To the sound of mandolins?
Begins singing of amore
And delire and dolore-
O the ravishing tenore !

"Lady, do you know the tune?
Ah, we all of us have hummed it!
I've an old guitar has thrummed it,
Under many a changing moon.
Shall I try it? Do RE MI.
What is this? Ma foi, the fact is,
That my hand is out of practice,
And my poor old fiddle cracked is,
And a man- I let the truth out,
Who's had almost every tooth out,
Cannot sing as once he sung,
When he was young as you are young,
When he was young and lutes were
strung,

And love-lamps in the casement hung."

LUCY'S BIRTHDAY.
SEVENTEEN rosebuds in a ring,
Thick with sister flowers beset,
In a fragrant coronet,

Lucy's servants this day bring.
Be it the birthday wreath she wears
Fresh and fair, and symbolling
The young number of her years,
The sweet blushes of her spring.

Types of youth and love and hope!
Friendly hearts your mistress greet,
Be you ever fair and sweet,
And grow lovelier as you ope!

PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALBUM PRINT.

As on this pictured page I look,
This pretty tale of line and hook
As though it were a novel-book

Amuses and engages:

I know them both, the boy and girl;
She is the daughter of the Earl,
The lad (that has his hair in curl)

My lord the County's page is.

A pleasant place for such a pair!
The fields lie basking in the glare;
No breath of wind the heavy air

Of lazy summer quickens.

Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens.

It is too hot to pace the keep;
To climb the turret is too steep;
My lord the earl is dozing deep,

His noonday dinner over : The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep):

And so from out the gate they creep, And cross the fields of clover.

Their lines into the brook they launch;
He lays his cloak upon a branch,
To guarantee his Lady Blanche

's delicate complexion :

He takes his rapier from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch;

He'd drill it through the rival's paunch

That question'd his affection!

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack! You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback,

Your baited snares may capture. What care has she for line and hook? She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look

In sentimental rapture.

O loving pair! as thus I gaze
Upon the girl who smiles always,
The little hand that ever plays

Upon the lover's shoulder;
In looking at your pretty shapes,
A sort of envious wish escapes
(Such as the Fox had for the Grapes)

The Poet your beholder.

To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo:

It were a pleasant calling. And had I such a partner sweet; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet ; I'd let the world flow at my feet, And never heed its brawling

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.

THE rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming,

Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring;

You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen : And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing,

It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma;

the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye;

And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and re. joices,

And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

And, as the piteous tale is said, Of lady cold and lover true, Each, musing, carries it to bed, And sighs and envies you!

"Our lady's old and feeble now," They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair,

And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, And heartless left him to despair : The lover lies in silent earth,

No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth,

With threescore and ten years!"

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are

those,

While yet the dame is peerless fair! Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time Requite my passion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime The roses of your youth!

chin,

That never has known the Barber's