We were not rich, we were not kings, We are just where we were;

No hope has borne us on its wings,

To drop us in despair.

I might forget an hour had pass'd Since the sweet hour I saw thee last,

Thou art so very like the maid
I saw twelve months ago;

And yet almost I am afraid
Thou dost not feel it so.

Thou art, my love, the same to me,
But am I quite the same to thee?

The lines are deeper on my brow,
The corners of my eyes
Are quaintly netted, I allow,

As wings of dragon flies;

My cheek the red and yellow dapple, Much like a last year's russet apple.

A

year

is nothing to a man That forty years hath seen; But, ah! it is no little span

"Twixt fifteen and sixteen.

Now I perceive a year hath flown,
And thou almost a woman grown.

A something sure hath cross'd thy view,
Or perhaps some lady sage

Hath told what to thy hopes is due,
And to thy stately age:

Yet thou hast not forgot me-no;
But thou would'st very fain do so.

Farewell! I will not vex thee more,-
I would not be a blot

On thy fair page, a fretting sore,
An ever-tangled knot.

What matter what thou think'st on me,

While thy young heart is glad and free.

GOD SAVE THE QUEEN.

A NEW VERSION.

Not what I would, but what I could,
I give our little Queen so good,
Adapting thus a custom'd strain
To the sweet promise of her reign,
Whatever men in any part lie,
May they be loyal all as HARTLEY

COLERIDGE.

God save our Island's hope,
Long live the people's hope,
God bless our Queen.

Still may our Queen be free,
Then evermore will she

Love that good liberty

Which makes her Queen.

Oh may she prize that gem

Bright in her diadem,

Fair on her brow;

So, to the end of days,
May God approve her ways,
And heaven resound her praise

As earth does now.

Lord keep her evermore,
Pure in her own heart's core,

Kind and serene;

So shall the wise and good
Reverence her womanhood,

And the glad multitude

Love their young Queen.

May He that dwells on high
All her thoughts sanctify;

Seraphs unseen

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.