The Queen of Paphos, Erycine,
In heart did rose-cheek'd Adon love,
He mortal was but she divine,
And oft with kisses did him move;
With great gifts still she did him woo,
But he would never yield thereto.

Then since the Queen of Love by Love
To love was once a subject made,
And could thereof no pleasure prove,
By day, by night, by light or shade,
Why being mortal should I grieve,
Since she herself could not relieve?

She was a goddess heavenly,
And lov'd a fair fac'd earthly boy,
Who did contemn her deity,

The Queen of Hearts
She made some tarts,
All on a summer's day;
The Knave of Hearts
He stole those tarts,
And took them clean away.

The King of Hearts
Called for the tarts
And beat the knave full sore;
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts,
And vowed he'd steal no more.

TO THE RIGHT HON. LADY JANE WHARTON .

Queen of Fragrance, lovely Rose!
The beauties of thy leaves disclose;
The winter's past, the tempests fly,
Soft gales breathe gently thro' the sky;
The lark, sweet warbling on the wing,
Salutes the gay return of spring;
The silver dews, the vernal show'rs,
Call forth a bloomy waste of flow'rs;
The joyous fields, the shady woods,
Are cloath'd with green, or swell with buds:
Then haste thy beauties to disclose,
Queen of Fragrance, lovely Rose!
 Thou, beauteous flow'r! a welcome guest,

The queen of Egypt yawned and frowned
And twisted all her rings around,
Her thoughts were still, her pulse was slow
While kings and courtiers bowed below.
Upon a gem-encrusted throne
The queen of Egypt sat alone,
Hating her sterile gorgeous land,
When, suddenly, againsTher hand,
Between two curves of tortoise-shell,
A sulky little rain-drop fell.
The queen threw back her head and stared,
And on her brow the lightning flared. . . .

As Tristan and Isolde lay,
Dreaming their happiness away
Within the forest quiet-boughed,

Queen of all streets, Fifth Avenue
Stretches her slender limbs
From the great Arch of Triumph, on —
On, where the distance dims

The splendors of her jewelled robes,
Her granite draperies;
The magic, sunset-smitten walls
That veil her marble knees;

For ninety squares she lies a queen,
Superb, bare, unashamed,
Yielding her beauty scornfully
To worshippers unnamed.

But at her feet her sister glows,
A daughter of the South:
Squalid, immeasurably mean, —
But O! her hot, sweet mouth!

Queen Jane sat at her window one day
A-sewing a silken seam;
She looked out at the merry green woods
And saw the green nut tree,
And saw the green nut tree.

She dropped her thimble at her heel
And her needle at her toe,
And away she ran to the merry green woods
To gather nuts and so,
To gather nuts and so.

She scarce had reached the merry green woods,
Scarce had pulled nuts two or three,
When a proud forester came striding by,
Saying, "Fair maid, let those be."
Saying, "Fair maid, let those be.

Quebec, the grey old city on the hill,
Lies with a golden glory on her head,
Dreaming throughout this hour so fair, so still,
Of other days and all her mighty dead.
The white doves perch upon the cannons grim,
The flowers bloom where once did run a tide
Of crimson, when the moon rose pale and dim
Above the battlefield so grim and wide.
Methinks within her wakes a mighty glow
Of pride, of tenderness — her stirring past —
The strife, the valor, of the long ago
Feels at her heartstrings. Strong, and tall, and vast,

Read at the 25th Anniversary of Wilberforce, Ohio, June, 1887.

A quarter century ago,
A March morning, bleak and wild,
The joyful news spread to and fro:
To Afro Methodist is born a child;
Begotten in the time of strife,
And born in adverse circumstances,
All trembled for the young child's life,
It seemed to have so poor a chance.
But, nursed by every care,
It stronger grew, until at last
Our hearts no longer feel a fear,
The danger is forever past.
The feeble childhood's days are flown,
How swiftly speed the years away;

Almighty Power! who rul'st this world of storms!
Eternal Spirit of Infinity!
Whose wisdom Nature's boundless space informs,
O! look with mercy on man's misery;
Who, tost on all the elements by turns,
With languor droops, or with fierce passions burns.

Submissive to life's casualties I sing;
Though short our mortal day, and stor'd with pains,
And strongly Nature's truths conviction bring,
That no firm happiness this world contains:
Yet hope, sweet hope, supports the pious breast,
Whose boundless views no earthly griefs arrest.

EYEZION.

DAWN had not streak'd the spacious veil of night,
When EYEZION, the light poet of the spring,
Hied from his restless bed, to sing,
Impatient for the promis'd beams of light:
Sweetly his voice through woods and vallies rang,
While fleeting o'er the hills, these anxious notes he sang:

Swift, swift, ye lingering hours,
And wake the morning star;
Rouse from the dew-fraught flowers
The shades, and drive them far.

Quick on the wings of morning,
Dart the young glimmering light,