A CHARADE.

So Will, my lad, you beg that I'll Concoct you a charade; Well, dear, here goes: My first is first Your favorite little maid; The hearts of roses too are it, And vine-blooms under which I sit;

And childhood's dreams, and sinless thoughts, And tones attuned to love, "The uses of adversity," The cooings of the dove, And Lilly's eyes, and Kitty's lips, And Tommy's 'lassed finger-tips.

My second was the royal name Of England's conquering foe. Who set his foot on Saxon necks Eight hundred years ago; The name too of a poet-king, Who still rules many a land; No soldier he, but a knightlier soul Did ne'er shake spear or brand.