CHRYSANTHEMUM'S COURT.

They lift their faces to the light,

And aye they are a gallant band;

The queen of all is snowy white —

A stately thing, and tall and grand.

See, close beside, in yellow drest,

Is the prince consort of the hour;

A bit of God's own sunshine prest

Into a glorious golden flower!

And mark the courtiers’ noble grace —

Gay courtiers these, in raiment fine —

Their satin doublets slashed with lace,

Their velvet cloaks as red as wine.

Each maid-in-waiting is most fair —

Note well the graces she unfurls —

The winds have tossed her fluffy hair,

And left it in a thousand curls.

And yonder quaint, old-fashioned one,

Arrayed in palest lavender,

Ah! few there are, when all is done,

In beauty can compare with her.

The pink — I've seen at eventide

A something very like to this,

A cloud adrift upon the sky,

All rosy from the sun's last kiss.

Without the court, the chill and gloom

Of autumn twilight o'er the land;

Within, the grandeur and the bloom

Of queen, of prince, and courtiers grand.