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'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man, with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology-- A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little pole-hills The faculties throw up like mole hills.

Now, really, this appears the common case Of putting too much Sabbath into Sunday-- But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise; But waking flow'rs, At morning hours, Give out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.

She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

There's a double beauty whenever a swan Swims on a lake with her double thereon.

Where is the pride of Summer,--the green prime,-- The many, many leaves all twinkling?--three On the mossed elm; three on the naked lime Trembling,--and one upon the old oak tree! Where is the Dryad's immortality?

The violet is a nun.

And soon Their hushing dances languished to a stand, Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon, All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.