Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked hats.

Be particular with the pagoda: and then here's this pretty bowl

The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole;

And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll,

Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol. But I needn't tell you what to do, only do it out of hand, And charge whatever you like to charge-my Lady won't make a stand.

Well! good morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call, for it's time our gossip ended:

And you know the proverb, the less as is said, the sooner the Chiney's mended.

And that great talker, Miss Apreece;
Oh Peace! so dear to poet's quills—
Oh Peace! our greatest renovator;
I wonder where I put my waiter—
Oh Peace! but here my Ode I'll cease,
I have no peace to write of Peace!

III

A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN

WHEN I reflect with serious sense,
While years and years run on,
How soon I may be summoned hence-
There's cook a-calling John.

Our lives are built so frail and poor,
On sand and not on rocks,

We're hourly standing at Death's door-
There's some one double knocks.

All human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force;

This flesh of mine will feed the worms-
They're come to lunch of course!

And when my body's turned to clay,
And dear friends hear my knell,
Oh let them give a sigh and say-
I hear the upstairs bell!

LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY

WELL hast thou cried, departed Burke,
All chivalrous romantic work

Is ended now and past!—

That iron age-which some have thought
Of metal rather overwrought—
Is now all overcast !

Ay! where are those heroic knights
Of old-those armadillo wights

Who wore the plated vest?—
Great Charlemagne and all his peers
Are cold--enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest!

The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound;
So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such éclat !

Oh, Time has pluck'd the plumy brow!
And none engage at tourneys now
But those that go to law!

Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by,
And Guy is nothing but a Guy,

Orlando lies forlorn!

Bold Sidney, and his kidney-nay,

Those "early champions "what are they

But "Knights without a morn"?

No Percy branch now perseveres,
Like those of old, in breaking spears-
The name is now a lie !-

Surgeons, alone, by any chance,

Are all that ever couch a lance
To couch a body's eye!

Alas for Lion-Hearted Dick,
That cut the Moslems to the quick,
His weapon lies in peace:

Oh, it would warm them in a trice,
If they could only have a spice

Of his old mace in Greece !

The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold,
And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,
That scaled the holy wall!

No Saracen meets Paladin,

We hear of no great Saladin,

But only grow the small!

Our Cressys, too, have dwindled since
To penny things-at our Black Prince
Historic pens would scoff:

The only one we moderns had

Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,
And measles took him off!

Where are those old and feudal clans, Their pikes, and bills, and partisans, Their hauberks, jerkins, buffs?

A battle was a battle then,

A breathing piece of work; but men

Fight now with powder puffs!