THE STRANGE CHOICE.

How grim the woods, the tower how pale;
The landscape colourless and cold,
While all the hovel foul and frail,
The ragged thatch and battered sail,
Are gorgeous in the sunset gold!
Such seems the girl's capricious part,
Who flouts the noble, wise, and true,
And wastes her loving burning heart,
And glorifies with doting art
The basest of her courting crew.

THE PUDDLE.

This shallow pool which ruffling in the breeze,
Spurts gold and azure at the morning sun,
Ere night will be a blot of slimy lees,
By the absorbing heat and wind foredone.
Thou dost with glittering surface, puddle fine,
Of fools and prodigals the fate pourtray,
Who in the transient flattery swell and shine
Of knaves who suck their substance all away.