The last poem of the series is the longest,
and is not so much intended to be sung, as to
be performed in the streets and coffee-houses.
It is inscribed, Narration of the War : the
beginning very much resembling that of the
third poem. Afterwards it passes into a
dialogue between Omer Pasha and the Muscovite ;
when both personages are supposed to
converse very politely on their different
chances and duties. The following will be
found interesting :

The Muscovite says: Know it well,
This year you will see it in the Crimea.
I have read the gospel in the Church
of St. Sophia,
When going from Pera to the Porte.
Omer Pasha says: We shall take it,
When fate holds her sway.
As regards Sevastopol, we know the
plan,
In a short time we shall be in
possession of it.
The Muscovite says; You do not know
my skill.
Sebastopol will not be taken so easily.
I have mines there, that are invisible,
When you hit on them, look at the
smoke!

At last Omer Pasha ominously glorifies
himself in the concluding lines:

Seven kings have ordered my portrait
to be made,
And sent it everywhere.

The engravings, added to this poem,
represent four generals. In the middle, Omer
Pasha and Ahmed Pasha; on the right of the
latter, General Canrobert; on the left of the
former, the late Menschikoff. To each personage
have been added his accompanying
emblems; Menschikoff having a carriage (the
same probably in which he fled after the
battle of Alma); Canrobert and the Turkish
generals, French standards and Turkish
horse-tails.

ROSES.

O! THE ineffable delight of a trip into
the country, to see a show of roses, when
you have a high-spirited, fast-trotting, rose-
fancying hobby-horse to ride! " Cato," — one
of our most learned authors, informs us—
"Cato seemed to dote on cabbage." Myself
may boast of out-Catoing Cato, in one
respect: for I dote to destraction on
cabbage-roses. Take a full-blown Provins to
bed with you ; lay it on your pillow within
reach of your nose ; sniff at it an amorous
sniff from time to time till you fall asleep ;
perform similar ceremonies the first thing
when you wake in the morning, and you
will not be too hard on my infatuation.
I particularise a Provins, because although
the tea-scented roses are delicious, while
the Macartneys smell like apricot - tart,
and the Jaune Desprez is a happy blending
of raspberry jam with the finest otto,
or atargul ; nevertheless, all roses by
name do not smell equally sweet. In
fact. some roses are no roses at all. The
Christmas rose is a hellebore, which deserves
a little protection with a hand-light if we
desire it to wish us a happy New-year ; the
Guelder rose is a sterile snow-ball, which
ought not to repudiate its classical title of
Viburnum ; the Rose Trémière, or Passe-Rose,
is a hollyhock, which renders excellent
service in the decoration of garden scenery ;
the Rose of Jericho is a cruciferous individual (?)
—the note of interrogation shall be
discussed hereafter — belonging to the same
Linnæan class as cabbages and turnips, and
in no way related to any sort of rose, " for,
though it be dry, yet will it, upon inhibition
of moisture, dilate its leaves and explicate
its flowers contracted and seeming dried up ;"
the Rose-Laurier, or Laurel Rose, is the
oleander, an elegant shrub with bright pink
flowers, delighting to grow by the water's
edge, but which, Algerian colonists say,
poisons the brook that runs at its foot. The
Rosa Mundi, the World's Rose, or Fair Rosamond,
was a pretty young woman who was
considered by her friends to be under no
particular obligations to Queen Eleanor ; the
Rose Effleurée, the Handful of Roseleaves, or
bouquet for children and families, is a nice
little volume of tales and poetry. I am sure
that the roses of heraldry — stained-glass
roses and gothic stone roses — have no right
to claim any other than a verbal relationship
with the legitimate family of Rosaceæ. And
the rose on the spout of my watering-pot is
only a bit of red-tin pierced with holes. All
these, (with the exception of the lady) are
false, sham roses, of fleeting merit, and mere
outside show ; whilst a real rose, even in its
grave of pot-pourri, exhales a pleasant odour,
and is sweet in death.

Know, ye who are unfamiliar with roses,
that the queen of flowers, like the changeful
moon, presents herself under different aspects.
There are roses which resemble the beauties
of the south; they blossom once in their
season, they dazzle you with their charms,
and then they depart. You have to wait for
another generation of blooms. There are
others — we call them perpetual roses, while
the French style them rosiers remontants—
which do not begin perhaps quite so early
but which, having once begun, go on continually,
till old Father Nip-nose comes to town.
Even then, if you can shift them into warm,
light, and airy quarters, in their pots or tubs,
they will go on flowering, and flowering, till
you fear they will flower themselves to death.
Observe, that some of the old-fashioned sorts
maintain their ground against new-born
rivals. What an indefatigable bloomer is the
old crimson China, or semperflorens! What
an emblem of perseverance and hardihood is
that sweet-scented, semi-double, faithful
friend, the Portland, or Pæstan rose, which
will present you with a cluster of bright red