Sing up with holy glee,

"Let this maid's name still be

Omen of victory,"

God save the Queen!

"Non bene conveniunt nec unâ in sede morantur
Majestas et amor."-OV. MET., ii. 846.

A WANTON bard in heathen time,
In sensual age and sensual clime,
Hath sung that no accord can be
Of love with god-like majesty.

Far other had his sentence been
Had gentle Ovid ever seen

An English home, a Christian Queen;
For love, content in cot to dwell,

Becomes a British palace well.

And our young Queen, whose happy choice
Has made a noble land rejoice,

Is sure the monarch need not smother
The feelings of a wife and mother.

A wife and mother truly great,
In woman's duties consummate,
Such is she now. And every wife
And mother wishes joy and life

To the good Queen that dignifies
The mother's cares, the baby's cries.
Yea, every mother in the isle,

When she beholds her infant smile,
Should have a good wish and a prayer
For her the matron Queen so fair;
Who, though a Queen, has that in common
With every homely household woman,
That she has got a babe to love,
And knows there is a God above

That will the babes alike receive;
For they have all one mother Eve-
May in one well of life be laved,
And by one Jesus shall be saved.
Oh! may that God prepare their hearts,
Alike to fill their several parts.

December, 1840.

SONG.

IN June, when the rose-buds Are ready to blow,

We love something in them Far more than we know. When we look on a baby,

We love what we see

We love what it may be,
And hope it will be.

But my love, sweet Mary,
For thee, as I know,

Is a rose-bud untimely

That never will blow.

My love is a baby,

No blessing will crave, But come, love, however,

And smile on its grave.

TO A YOUNG LADY FROM A FOREIGN CLIME.

THOU sweet exotic, lovely brown!

No fair one could be sweeter,—
Young as thou art, thou wilt not frown
Upon an old man's metre.

Rich is the sky where thou wert born,
And gorgeous were the flowers;
But yet I trust thou wilt not scorn
This cold blue sky of ours.

And though the flowers of Westmorland
Do not surcharge the wind

With burden of perfume so bland
As flowers of Western Ind;

Yet are they sweet if they be sought
Where careless eyes would miss them ;
They crouch so low, as if they thought

A maid should stoop to kiss them.