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 VERS DE SOCI ETE 
 
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 I- 
 

 Is? PREFACE. 
 
 AS the title which, for want of a better, has been 
 given to this book does not explain itself as 
 lucidly as could be wished, it will be acceptable to 
 the reader, perhaps, if the Editor attempts here what 
 it was necessary for him to do in his own mind at 
 the very beginning of his task, namely, to frame a 
 correct or at least intelligible definition of what 
 is meant by vers de societe. Fortunately, as he dis- 
 covered after the present collection was nearly com- 
 pleted, such a definition has been furnished by Mr. 
 Frederick Locker, himself probably the most sym- 
 pathetic student, as he is certainly second to none as 
 a writer, of this species of verse. In the Introduc- 
 tion to his " I.yra Elegantiarum " he says : " Lest any 
 reader who may not be familiar with this description 
 of poetry should be misled by the adoption of the 
 French title, which the absence of any precise 
 English equivalent renders necessary, it may be as 
 well to observe that vers de socitte need by no means 
 be confined to topics of artificial life. Subjects of 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 the most exalted and of the most trivial charactei 
 may be treated with equal success, provided the man- 
 ner of their treatment is in accordance with the fol- 
 lowing characteristics. Genuine 7ic?'s de societe and 
 versd'occasmi should be sliort, elegant, refined, and 
 fanciful, not seldom distinguished by chastened sen- 
 timent, and often playful. The tone should not be 
 pitched high ; it should be idiomatic, and rather in the 
 conversational key ; the rhythm should be crisp and 
 sparkling, and the rhyme frequent and nerver forced, 
 while the entire poem should be marked by tasteful 
 moderation, high finish, and completeness ; for, how- 
 ever trivial the subject-matter may be, indeed rather 
 in proportion to its triviality, subordination to the 
 rules of composition and perfection of execution 
 should be strictly enforced. The definition may be 
 further illustrated by a few examples of pieces which, 
 from the absence of some of the foregoing qualities, 
 or from the excess of others, cannot be properly 
 classed as vo-s de societe, though they may bear 
 a certain generic resemblance to that species 
 of poetry. The ballad of *John Gilpin,' for in- 
 stance, is too broadly and simply humorous ; Swift's 
 * Lines on the Death of Marlborough,' and Byron's 
 'Windsor Poetics,' are too savage and truculent; 
 Cowper's 'My Mary' is far too pathetic; Herrick's 
 lyrics to ' Blossoms ' and ' Daffodils ' are too 
 elevated; 'Sally in our Alley' is too homely, and 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 too entirely simple and natural ; while the ' Rape 
 of the Lock,' which would otherwise be one of the 
 finest specimens of vers de socitte in any language, 
 must be excluded on account of its length, which 
 renders it much too important. Every piece se- 
 lected for a volume of this kind cannot be expected 
 to exhibit all the characteristics above enumerated, 
 but the two qualities of brevity and buoyancy are 
 absolutely essential. The poem may be tinctured 
 with a well-bred philosophy, it may be gay and gal- 
 lant, it may be playfully malicious or tenderly 
 ironical, it may display lively banter, and it maybe 
 satirically facetious; it may even, considering it 
 merely as a work of art, be pagan in its philosophy, 
 or trifling in its tone, but it must never be ponderous 
 
 or commonplace 
 
 " The chief merit of vers de society is, that it should 
 seem to be entirely spontaneous : when the reader 
 says to himself, * I could have written that, and 
 easily too,' he pays the poet the highest possible 
 compliment. At the same time it is right to observe, 
 that this absence of effort, as recognized in most 
 wo'.ks of real excellence, is only apparent; the 
 writing of vers de societe is a difficult accomplishment, 
 and no one has fully succeeded in it without possess- 
 ing a certain gift of irony, which is not only a much 
 rarer quality than humor, or even wit, but is alto- 
 gether less commonly met with than is sometimes 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 imagined. At the same time this description of 
 poetry seems so easy to write that a long catalogue 
 of authors, both famous and obscure, have at- 
 tempted it, but in the great majority of cases with 
 very indifferent success. This frequent liability to 
 failure will excite less surprise if it be borne in mind 
 that the possession of the true poetic faculty is not 
 sufficient of itself to guarantee capacity for this iu- 
 ferior branch of the art of versification. The writer 
 of vers de socitte, in order to be genuinely success- 
 ful, must not only be more or less of a poet, but he 
 must also be a man of the world, in the most liberal 
 sense of the expression ; he must have mixed 
 throughout his life with the most refined and culti- 
 vated members of his species, not merely as an idle 
 bystander, but as a busy actor in the throng. A 
 professed poet, however exalted his faculty, will sel- 
 dom write the best vej^s de societe, just because writ- 
 ing is the business of his life ; for it appears to be 
 an essential characteristic of these brilliant trifles, 
 that they should be thrown off in the leisure moments 
 of men whose lives are devoted to graver pursuits." 
 A reviewer in a late number of the Lofidon Times 
 makes the following noteworthy remarks on the sub- 
 ject of vers de socitte^ more especially of a certain 
 kind, which supplement in a graceful v/ay the forego- 
 ing observations of Mr. Locker : " It is the poetry 
 of men who belong to society, who have a keen sym- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 patby with the hghtsome tone and airy jesting of 
 fashion ; who are not disturbed by the flippancies of 
 small-talk, but, on the contrary, can see the grace- 
 fulness of which it is capable, and who, nevertheless, 
 amid all this froth of society, feel that there are 
 dei)ths in our nature, which even in the gayety of 
 drawing-rooms cannot be forgotten. Theirs is the 
 ]K)etry of bitter-sweet, of sentiment that breaks into 
 humor, and of solemn thought, which, lest it should 
 be too solemn, plunges into laughter : it is in an 
 especial sense the verse of society. When society 
 ceases to be simple, it becomes sceptical. Nor are 
 we utterly to condemn this sceptical temper as a 
 sign of corruption. It is assumed in self defence, 
 and becomes a necessity of rapid conversation. 
 When society becomes refined, it begins to dread the 
 exhibition of strong feeling, no matter whether real 
 or suiiulated. If real, it disturbs the level of con- 
 versation and of manners — if simulated, so much the 
 worse. In such an atmosphere, emotion takes ref- 
 uge in jest, and passion hides itself in scepticism of 
 passion : we are not going to wear our hearts upon 
 our sleeves ; rather than that, we shall pretend to 
 have no heart at all ; and if, perchance, a bit of it 
 should peep out, we shall hide it as quickly as pos- 
 sible, and laugh at the exposure as a good joke. . . 
 In the poets who represent this social mood there is 
 a dehcious piquancy, and the way they play at bo- 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 peep with their feehngs makes them a class by them- 
 selves." 
 
 The following collection, as the reader will ob- 
 serve, attempts to represent only that portion of vers 
 de socitte for which we are indebted to modern poets, 
 in other words, to poets who have written in that dis- 
 tinctively modern spirit of which Praed is perhaps the 
 earhest and most typical example. The Editor be- 
 lieves that his collection represents fairly and with at 
 least an approach to completeness the best vers de 
 socieie from about the beginning of the century to our 
 own time. If some pieces are omitted which would 
 seem entitled to a place in such a work, it must be 
 attributed to the necessary limitations as to space ; 
 and if others are included which bring into promi- 
 nence a number of authors comparatively little known, 
 it must be attributed to a natural desire on the part 
 of the Editor, when two or more pieces of equal 
 merit offered themselves, to present that one with 
 which the reader is least likely to be iilready famil- 
 iar. 
 
 It can hardly be necessary to state that the prom- 
 inence assigned to the different authors in this book 
 is not intended to indicate their relative position as 
 poets, but merely as writers of this particular kind of 
 verse. Longfellow and Lowell, for instance, are 
 naturally expected to fill a large space in any col- 
 lection of recent poetry which includes American 
 
PREFACE, 
 
 authors ; but their Muse has seldom led them in the 
 direction of ve7's de socitte — though readers of 
 " Without and Within " will regret that Lowell at 
 least has not made more frequent excursions into 
 this held. It is pleasant, however, to be able to add 
 that Mr. Locker assigns the first place among living 
 writers of vers de socitte to Dr. Holmes ; and that 
 another English poet, who worthily contests the 
 precedence with Mr. Locker, has, in a private let- 
 ter, expressed the same opinion. 
 
 Thanks are due to the proprietors of the copy- 
 right pieces by American authors (in particular to 
 Messrs. J. R. Osgood & Co., Boston) for their cour- 
 tesy and liberality in allowing their insertion, 
 
 C. H. J. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 WINTHROP M. PRAED. pagh 
 
 THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOr4 3 
 
 A LETTER OF ADVICE lO 
 
 OUR BALL 16 
 
 THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 21 
 
 MV LITTLE COUSINS 28 
 
 WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 
 
 THE EFFECTS OF AGE 33 
 
 UNDER THE LINDENS 35 
 
 NO LONGER JEALOUS 36 
 
 DEFIANCE 37 
 
 THE ONE WHITE HAIR 38 
 
 LITTLE AGLAE 39 
 
 SIXTEEN 40 
 
 PLAYS ;. 41 
 
 THOMAS MOORE. 
 
 THE TIME I've LOST IN WOOING 45 
 
 DEAR FANNY 47 
 
 A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP 48 
 
 REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY 49 
 
 MINERVA'S THIMBLE , 5^ 
 
 THOMAS HOOD 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANl PKOSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY 55 
 
 I'm NOT A SINGLE MAN 62 
 
 " PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE " 65 
 
 THE WATER PERl'S SONG 66 
 
 I've a DARLING OF MY OWN 67 
 
 TO MINERVA. — Frovt the Greek 67 
 
 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 
 
 CONTENTMENT 7* 
 
 THE LAST LEAF 75 
 
 DAILY TRIALS 1^ 
 
 MY AUNT 8l 
 
 TO AN INSECT " ^4 
 
 THE MUSIC-GRINDERS 87 
 
 xiii 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 W. M. THACKERAY. pagh 
 
 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE 9S 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE lOO 
 
 THE CANE-BOTTOM'd CHAIR I02 
 
 PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX Io6 
 
 THE MAHOGANY-TREE IlO 
 
 JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 
 
 MY FAMILIAR I17 
 
 "do YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED?" I20 
 
 FREDERICK LOCKER. 
 
 TO MY GRANDMOTHER I27 
 
 REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A LOCK OF HAIR I31 
 
 MY mistress's BOOTS I3S 
 
 my neighbor rose 138 
 
 a nice correspondent 142 
 
 the pilgrims of pall mall. i45 
 
 the old cradle 149 
 
 the angora cat i51 
 
 st. george's, hanover square 154 
 
 the skeleton in the cupboard 155 
 
 episode in the story ok a muff 158 
 
 geraldine 159 
 
 mrs. smith 163 
 
 circumstance 166 
 
 gerty's glove 167 
 
 A tekrible infant i68 
 
 C. S. CALVERLEY. 
 
 flight 171 
 
 peace. — A study 176 
 
 ODE TO TOBACCO I77 
 
 lines SUGGESTED BY THE FOURTEENTH OF FEBRUARY 180 
 
 DISASTER 182 
 
 COMPANIONS.—^ Tale of A GraiidfatJier 1S5 
 
 ISABEL 188 
 
 " FOKEVER " 190 
 
 A, B, C 192 
 
 AUSTIN DOBSON. 
 
 TU QUOQUE. — A71 Idyl in the Conservatory 197 
 
 AVICE 201 
 
 THE LOVE-LETTER 205 
 
 AN AUTUMN IDYL 2IO 
 
 A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO ZIJ 
 
 xiv 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 A GARDEN IDYL 22$ 
 
 " LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE." 232 
 
 DOROTHY. — A Reverie 234 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 TO A FISH. — John Wolcot 239 
 
 THE CONTRAST. — Cnptaiii Charles Morris 240 
 
 TO . — Sauzuel Rogers 246 
 
 EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST. — Saniucl RogerS 264 
 
 THE OLD STORY OVER KGM^.—Jawcs Keuny 247 
 
 WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. — Ho7i. WilUajn R. SJ>encer . . . 249 
 
 TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. — Hou. WHUajn R. Spe7icer 252 
 
 JOB. — Samuel T. Coleridge 253 
 
 NAMES. — Samuel T. Coleridge 253 
 
 TO HESTER SAVORY. — Charles Lamb 254 
 
 CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. — Jaiues Smith 256 
 
 SONG TO FANNY . — Horace Smith 260 
 
 MARGARET AND DORA. — Tho7Jias Campbell. 261 
 
 THE POPLAR. — Richard Barham {Iiigoldsby) 262 
 
 SYMPATHY. — Reginald Hebcr 263 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. — Washington h-ving 265 
 
 "jenny KISSED ME." — Leigh Hunt 266 
 
 A LOVE LESSON. — Leigh HuJit 267 
 
 RICH AND POOR ; OR, SAINT A.vD SINNER. — Thomas L. Peacock 26S 
 
 LOVE AND AGE. — Thojnas L. Peacock 270 
 
 FILL THE GOBLET ACJAIN . — Lord Byron 273 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT.— /'^rO' B. Shellcy 275 
 
 TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH \KKR.— Sidney Walker 276 
 
 A FASHIONABLE -iiov-^L.—Thomas Haynes Bayly 278 
 
 wroN'T YOU 1— Thomas Haynes Bayly 280 
 
 nydia's LOVE-SONG. — E. Btihver Lytton 281 
 
 MAIDENHOOD.— //^wry W- Lotigfello7v 282 
 
 THE LETTERS. — Alfred Tejmysoii 286 
 
 LILIAN. — Alfred Tennyson 289 
 
 A man's REQUIREMENTS. — Mrs. Broiuning 291 
 
 THE LA.Y OF THE LEVlTE.— JF>«. E. Aytoutl 294 
 
 TO A FORGET-ME-NOT. — Tkcodore Martin 296 
 
 WITHOUT AND wiTYLi-n .—jfames Russcll Lowell. 298 
 
 SPECTATOR ab EXTRA . — A rtJiur H. C lough 300 
 
 SING HEIGH-HO. —Rev. Chas. Kifigsley 3°^ 
 
 BECAUSE. — Edward Fitzgerald 31° 
 
 NEIGHBOR ^i^xsiM.— Robert B. Brotigh .313 
 
 LETTICE WHITE. — jfea7i l7lgel07V V-^ 
 
 MADAME LA MARQUISE . ■—Owe7i Meredith 320 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 IRISH EYES. — A . Perceval Graves 324 
 
 THE PROUDEST LADY. — Thomas Westwood. 326 
 
 ROSE SONG. — William Sawyer 327 
 
 MY oi.D COAT . — Mortimer Collhis 329 
 
 AD CHLOEN, M. A . —Mortimer Collins 332 
 
 CHLOU, M. A. AD AMANTEM suuM. — Mortimer ColUus 333 
 
 AN INTEP.LUDE. — Algernon Charles S-,vinburne 335 
 
 ON AN INTAGLIO HE.\D OF MINERVA. — Tltomas Bailey Aldrich . 339 
 
 WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE RED RIDING- 
 HOOD. — Bret Harte 341 
 
 TO AN UTTER STRANGER. — E. F. Blanchard 342 
 
 A BEGGING LETTER. — Henry S. Leigh 344 
 
 THK ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. — H. SuvUle Clarke 347 
 
 PEr's PUNISHMENT. — J. Ashby Sterry 349 
 
 LITTLE GERTV. — Frank Sfa in forth 350 
 
 WOMAN. — Fitz Greene Halleck 353 
 
 THE tofer's APOLOGY. — Cajitain Charles Morris 353 
 
 ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, MISS ELLEN TREE. — H. Luttrell 357 
 LOVE IN A COTTAGE. — N. P. WHUs 358 
 
 TOUJOURS AMOUR. — Edmund Clarence Stedman 359 
 
 STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY. — Henry S. Leigh 360 
 
 BURNHAM-EEECHKS. — Henry Luttrell 362 
 
 LINES LEFT AT MR. THEODORE HOOK's HOUSE IN JUNE, 
 
 1834. — Richard Barham 366 
 
 UP THE AISLE— NELL latine's WEDDING. — Gco. A. Baker, Jr. 368 
 
 A valentine.— £'zf/i^/ Grey 37i 
 
 THERE'S A TIME TO BE i^iAM .—Charles G. Lelajid ( HaTts 
 Brcitman.) ^^3 
 
 ALL in THE DOWNS. — Zy^^WrtJ- Hood, J iin 375 
 
 THE COURTSHIP AKD WADDING. — Anony7nous -. 377 
 
 TO MILDRED. AnouymoUS 378 
 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE. — A nonymous 379 
 
 A BALL-ROOM ROMANCE. — AflOUyjnOUS 381 
 
 an riyi-posTVL^TioK.—Ano?iymous 383 
 
 KOSHTTB.-f Imitated from the French of Beranger.J 384 
 
 THE CRICKET ON TiiK YiiLKWTM.— (Imitated from the Fre7ich 
 
 of Beranger.J 385 
 
 AN INVITATION.— (^rd7W the Frejich 0/ ThioJ>hile Gautier.) 387 
 MY PRETTY NEIGHBOR.— ^i^r^wz the French of Victor Hugo.) 383 
 THREE KISSES. — {Imitated from the Germa7i of A, von 
 
 Chamisi,o.) 300 
 
 THE BOUQUET.— (^/vw the Ger7nan of Uhland.) 393 
 
 THE MISTAKEN uoTK.-f l77zitated from the Ger7nan of Weg- 
 ener.) 35^ 
 
 xvi 
 
PRAED, 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 'X/'EARS — years ago, — ere yet my dreams 
 
 Had been of being wise "6 :-" witfy^— -' "' 
 Ere I had done with writing themes, 
 
 Or 3'awn'd o'er this infernal Chitty ;— 
 Years — years ago, — while all my joy 
 
 Was in my fowling-piece and fiMy,— 
 Li short, while 1 was yet a boy, 
 
 I fell in love with Laura Lily. 
 
 I saw her at the County Ball : 
 
 There, where the sounds of flute and fiddle, 
 Gave signal sweet, in that old hall, 
 
 Of hands across and down the middle, 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 Hers was the subtlest spell by far 
 
 Of all that set young hearts romancing ; 
 
 She was our queen, our rose, our star ; 
 
 And then she danced — O Heaven, her dancing ! 
 
 Dark was her hair, her hand was white ; 
 
 Her voice was exquisitely tender ; 
 Her eyes were full of liquid light; 
 
 I never saw a waist so slender ! 
 Her every look, her every smile, 
 
 Shot right and left a score of arrows ; 
 I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, 
 
 And wonder'd where she'd left her sparrows. 
 
 She talk'd, — of politics or prayers,— 
 
 Or Southey's prose, or Wordsworth's sonnets,- 
 
 Of danders — or of dancinsr bears, 
 Of battles — or the lost new bonnets, 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 By candlelight, at twelve o'clock, 
 
 To me it matter'd not a tittle ; 
 If those bright lips had quoted Locke, 
 
 I might have thought they murmur'd Little. 
 
 Through sunny May, through sultry June, 
 
 I loved her v/ith a love eternal ; 
 I spoke her praises to the moon, 
 
 I wrote them to the Sunday Journal : 
 My mother laugh' d ; I soon found out 
 
 That ancient ladies have no feeling : 
 My father frown'd ; but how should gout 
 
 See any happiness in kneeling? 
 
 She was the daughter of a Dean, 
 Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic ; 
 
 She had one brother, just thirteen. 
 Whose color was extremely hectic ; 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 Her grandmother for many a year 
 Had fed the parish witli her bounty ; 
 
 Her second cousin was a peer, 
 And Lord Lieutenant of the County. 
 
 But titles, and the three per cents., 
 
 And mortgages, and great relations, 
 And India bonds, and tithes, and rents. 
 
 Oh what are they to love's sensations ? 
 Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks — 
 
 Such wealth, such honors, Cupid chooses, 
 He cares as little for the Stocks, 
 
 As Baron Rothschild for the Muses. 
 
 She sketch'd ; the vale, the wood, the beach, 
 Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading : 
 
 She botanized ; I envied each 
 Young blossom in her boudoir fading : 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM, 
 
 She warbled Handel ; it was ^ grand ; 
 
 She made the Catalan! jealous : 
 She touch'd the organ ; I could stand 
 
 For hours and hours to blow the bellows. 
 
 She kept an album, too, at home, 
 
 Well liU'd with all an album's glories ; 
 Paintings of butterflies, and Rome, 
 
 Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories ; 
 Soft songs to Juha's cockatoo, 
 
 Fierce odes to Famine and to Slaughter, 
 And autographs of Prince Leboo, 
 
 And recipes for elder-water. 
 
 And she was flatter'd, worshipp'd, bored ; 
 
 Her steps were watch' d, her dress was noted ; 
 Her poodle dog was quite adored, 
 
 Her sayings were extremely quoted ; 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 She laiigh'd, and every heart was glad, 
 As if the taxes were abolish' d ; 
 
 She frown'd, and every look was sad, 
 As if the Opera were demolish'd. 
 
 // She smiled on many, just for fun, — 
 
 I knew that there was nothing in "t ; 
 I was tlie first — the only one 
 
 Her heart had thought of for a minute.- 
 I knew it, for she told me so, 
 
 In phrase which was divinely moulded ; 
 She wrote a charming hand, — and oh ! 
 
 How sweetly all her notes were folded I 
 
 Our love was like most other loves; — 
 
 A little glow, a little shiver, 
 A rose-bud, and a pair of gloves, 
 
 And ** Fly not yet" — upon the river; 
 
THE BELLE OF THE BALL-ROOM. 
 
 Some jealousy of some one's heir, 
 Some hopes of dying broken-hearted, 
 
 A miniature, a lock of hair, 
 
 The usual vows, — and then we parted. 
 
 We parted ; months and years roU'd by ; 
 
 We met again four summers after : 
 Our parting was all sob and sigh ; 
 
 Our meeting was all mirth and laughter 
 For in my heart's most secret cell 
 
 There had been many other lodgers ; 
 And she was not the ball-room's Belle, 
 
 But only — Mrs. Something Rogers ! 
 
 9 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 Fro7?i Miss Me dor a Trevilian^ at Padua, to Miss 
 Araminta Vavasour, m London. 
 
 '\7'0U tell me you're promised a lover, 
 
 My own Araminta, next week ; 
 Why cannot my fancy discover 
 
 The hue of his coat and his cheek ? 
 Alas ! if he look like another, 
 
 A vicar, a banker, a beau. 
 Be deaf to your father and mother, 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 
 
 Taught us both how to sing and to speak, 
 
 And we loved one another with passion, 
 Before we had been there a week : 
 
 You gave me a ring for a token ; 
 I wear it wherever I go ; 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 I gave you a chain, — is it broken ? 
 My own Araniinta, say "No!" 
 
 () think of our favorite cottage, 
 
 And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! 
 How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage. 
 
 And drank of the stream from the brook ; 
 How fondly our loving li[)s falter'd, 
 
 *' What further can grandeur bestow ? " 
 My heart is the same ; — is yours alter' d ? 
 
 Aly own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Remember the thrilling romances 
 
 We read on the bank in the glen ; 
 Remember the suitors our fancies 
 
 Would picture for both of us then. 
 They wore the red cross on their shoulder. 
 
 They had vanquish'd and pardon'd their ioa. 
 Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? 
 
 My own Araminta, say "No!" 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage, 
 
 Drove off with your Cousin Justine, 
 You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, 
 
 And whisper'd ''How base she lias been!" 
 You said you were sure it would kill you, 
 
 If ever your husband look'd so ; 
 And you will not apostatize, — will you ? 
 
 My own Araminta, say *' No ! " 
 
 AVhen I heard I was going abroad, love, 
 
 1 thought I was going to die ; 
 We walk'd arm in arm to the road, love. 
 
 We look'd arm in arm to the sky; 
 And I said " When a foreign postilion 
 
 Has hurried me off to the Po, 
 I'orget not Medora Trevilian : 
 
 Aiy own Araminta, say ' No ! ' " 
 
 We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 
 Reach far over valley and hill ; 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 I muse o'er your exquisite letters, 
 
 And fee] that your heart is mine still ; 
 
 • And he who would share it with me, love, — 
 The richest of treasures below, — 
 
 If he's not what Orlando should be, love, 
 My own Araminta, say "No!" 
 
 If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 
 
 If he comes to you riding a cob. 
 If he talks of his baking or brewing, 
 
 If he puts up his feet on the hob. 
 If he ever drinks port after dinner, 
 
 If his brow or his breeding is low, 
 If he calls himself ''Thompson" or "Skinner," 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he studies the news in the papers 
 
 While you are preparing the tea, 
 if he talks of the damps or the vapors 
 
 While moonlight lies soft on the sea, 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 If he's sleepy while you are capricious, 
 If he has not a musical "Oh!" 
 
 If he does not call Werther delicious, 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 If he ever sets foot in the City 
 
 Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 
 If he has not a heart full of pity, 
 
 If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
 If his lips are not redder than roses, 
 
 If his hands are not whiter than snow, 
 If he has not the model of noses, — 
 
 My own Araminta, say *' No ! " 
 
 If he speaks of a tax or a duty. 
 
 If he does not look grand on his knees. 
 
 If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, 
 Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
 
 Xf he dotes not on desolate towers. 
 
 If he likes not to hear the blast blow, 
 
A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 If he knows not the language of tloweis, — 
 My own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 He must walk — like a god of old story 
 
 Come down from the home of his rest ; 
 He must smile — like the sun in his glory 
 
 On the buds he loves ever the best ; 
 And oh ! from its ivory portal 
 
 Like music bis soft speech must flow ! — 
 If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, 
 
 Aly own Araminta, say " No ! " 
 
 Don't listen to tales of his bounty, 
 
 Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
 Don't look at his seat in the county, 
 
 Don't calculate what he is worth; 
 But give him a theme to write versf on, 
 
 And see if he turns out his toe ; 
 If he's only an excellent person, — 
 
 My own Araminta, say " No I " 
 
OUR BALL. 
 
 "X /'OU'LL come to our Ball ; — since we parted, 
 
 I've thought of you more than I'll say; 
 InJcctl, I was half broken-hearted 
 
 For a Nveek, when they took you away. 
 Fond fancy brought back to my slumbers 
 
 Our walks on the Ness and the Den, 
 And echo'd the musical nutribers 
 
 Which you used to sing to me then. 
 L know the romance, since it's over, 
 
 'Twere idle, or worse, to recall : 
 I know you're a terrible rover. 
 
 But Clarence, you'll come to our Ball I 
 
 Ii's only a year, since, at College, 
 
 You put on your cap and your gown ; 
 
 But. Clarence, you're grown out of knowledge, 
 And changed from the s[Hir to the crown : 
 
OUR BALL, 
 
 The voice that was best when it fa,Uere(i 
 
 Is fuller and firmer in tone, 
 And the smile that should never have alter'd- 
 
 Dear Clarence — it is not your own ; 
 Your cravat is badly selected : 
 
 Your coat don't become you at all; 
 And why is your hair so neglected ? 
 
 You must have it curl'd for our Ball 
 
 I've often been out upon Haldon 
 
 To look for a covey with pup ; 
 I've often been over to Shaldon 
 
 To see how your boat is laid up. 
 In spite of the terrors of Aunty, 
 
 I've ridden the filly you broke ; 
 And I've studied your sweet little Daute 
 
 In the shade of your favorite oak : 
 When I sat in July to Sir Lawrence, 
 
 I sat in your love of a shawl ; 
 
OUR BALL. 
 
 A.nd I'll wear what you brought ine from Florence, 
 Perhaps, if you'll come to our Ball. 
 
 Vou'U find us all chang'd since you vanished ; 
 
 We've set up a National School ; 
 And waltzing is utterly banish'd, 
 
 And Ellen has married a fool ; 
 The Major is going to travel, 
 
 Miss Plyacinth threatens a rout, 
 The walk is laid down with fresh gravel, 
 
 Papa is laid up with the gout ; 
 And Jane has gone on with her easels, 
 
 And Anne has gone off with Sir Paul ; 
 And Fanny is sick with the measles, — 
 
 And I'll tell you the rest at the Ball. 
 
 You'll meet all your Beauties ; the Lily, 
 And the Fairy of Willowbrook Farm, 
 
 And Lucy, who made me so silly 
 At Dawlish, by taking your arm ; 
 
OUR BALL. 
 
 Miss Manners, who always abused you 
 
 For talking so much about Hock, 
 And her sister, who often amused you 
 
 By raving of rebels and Rock ; 
 And something which surely would answer, 
 
 An heiress quite fresh from Bengal ; 
 So, though you were seldom a dancer, 
 
 You'll dance, just for once, at our Ball. 
 
 Rut out on the World ! from the flowers 
 
 It shuts out the sunshine of truth : 
 It blights the green leaves in the bowers, 
 
 It makes an old age of our youth ; 
 And the flow of our feeling, once in it, 
 
 Like a streamlet beginning to freeze, 
 Though it cannot turn ice in a minute, 
 
 Grows harder by sudden degrees : 
 
 Time treads o'er the graves of aflection, 
 
 Sweet honey is turn'd into gall ; 
 19 
 
OUR BALL. 
 
 Perhaps you have no recollection 
 That ever you danced at our Ball ! 
 
 You once could be pleased with our ballads,- 
 To-day you have critical ears ; 
 
 You once could be charm'd with our salads- 
 Alas ! you've been dining with Peers ; 
 
 You trifled and flirted with many, — 
 
 You've forgotten the when and the how ; 
 
 There was one you liked better than any, — 
 Perhaps you've forgotten her now. 
 
 But of those you remember most newly, 
 Of those who delight or enthrall, 
 
 None love you a quarter so truly, 
 As some you will find at our Ball. 
 
 They tell me you've many who flatter, 
 Because of your wit and your song : 
 
 They tell me — and what does it matter ? — 
 You like to be praised by the throng ; 
 
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. 
 
 They tell me you're shadovv'd with laurel : 
 
 They tell nie you're loved by a Blue : 
 rhey tell me you're sadly immoral — 
 
 Dear Clarence, that cannot be true ! 
 But to me, you are still what I found you, 
 
 Before you grew clever and tall ; 
 And you'll think of the spell that once bound you ; 
 
 And you'll come — won't you come? — to our Ball ! 
 
 THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD 
 
 T THINK, whatever mortals crave, 
 
 With impotent endeavor, — 
 A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave, — 
 
 The world goes round for ever ; 
 I think that life is no*f too long ; 
 
 And therefore I determine, 
 That many people read a song 
 
 Who will not read a sermon. 
 
THE C HAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD, 
 
 I think you've look'd through many hearts, 
 
 And mused on many actions, 
 And studied Man's component parts. 
 
 And Nature's compound fractions : 
 I think you've pick'd up truth by bits 
 
 From foreigner and neighbor ; 
 I think the world has lost its wits, 
 
 And you have lost your labor. 
 
 I think the studies of the wise, 
 
 The hero's noisy quarrel, 
 The majesty of Woman's eyes. 
 
 The poet's clierish'd laurel, 
 And all that makes us lean or fat, 
 
 And all that charms or troubles, — 
 This bubble is more bright than that, 
 
 -0 
 
 But still they are all bubbles. 
 
 I think the thing you call Renown, 
 The unsubstantial vapor 
 
THE C HAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. 
 
 For which the soldier burns a town, 
 
 The sonnetteer a taper, 
 Is Hke the mist which, as he flies. 
 
 The horseman leaves behind him ; 
 He cannot mark its wreaths arise, 
 
 Or if he does they bUnd him. 
 
 I think one nod of Mistress Chance 
 
 Makes creditors of debtors, 
 And shifts the funeral for the dance, 
 
 The sceptre for the fetters : 
 I think that Fortune's favor'd guest 
 
 May live to gnaw the platters, 
 And he tiiat wears the purple vest 
 
 May wear the rags and tatters. 
 
 I think the Tories l5ve to buy 
 
 "Your Lordships" and "your Graces," 
 
 By loathing common honesty, 
 And lauding commonplaces : 
 
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD, 
 
 I think that some are very wise, 
 
 And some are very funny, 
 And some grow rich by telHng lies, 
 
 And some bv telHng money. 
 
 I think the Whigs are wicked ];naves — 
 
 (And very Uke the Tories) — 
 Who doubt that Britain rules the ^^•aves, 
 
 And ask the price of glories : 
 I think that many fret and fume 
 
 At what their friends are planning, 
 And Mr. Hume hates Mr. Brougham 
 
 As much as Mr. Canning. 
 
 I think that friars and their hoods, 
 Their doctrines and their maggots, 
 
 Have lighted up too many feuds, 
 And far too many faggots : 
 
THE C HAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. 
 
 I think, while zealots fast and frown, 
 
 And fight for two or seven, 
 Tiiat there are fifty roads to town, 
 
 And rather more to Heaven. 
 
 I think that, thanks to Paget' s lance, 
 
 And thanks to Chester's learning, 
 The hearts that burn'd for fame in France 
 
 At home are safe from burning : 
 I think the Pope is on his back ; 
 
 And, though 'tis fun to shake him, 
 I think the Devil not so black 
 
 As many people make him. 
 
 I think that Love is like a play. 
 Where tears and smiles are blended, 
 
 Or like a faithless April day, 
 
 Whose shine with shower is ended : 
 
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. 
 
 Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough, 
 
 Like trade, exposed to losses, 
 And like a Highland plaid, — all stuff, 
 
 And very full of crosses. 
 
 I think the world, though dark it be, 
 
 Has aye one rapturous pleasure 
 Conceal'd in life's monotony, 
 
 For those who seek the treasure ; 
 One planet in a starless night, 
 
 One blossom on a briar, 
 One friend not quite a hypocrite, 
 
 One woman not a liar! 
 
 I think poor beggars court St. Giles, 
 
 Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; 
 And death looks down with nods and smiles, 
 
 And makes the odds all even : 
 
 26 
 
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD, 
 
 I think some die upon the field, 
 
 And some upon the billow. 
 And some are laid beneath a shield, 
 
 And some beneath a willow. 
 
 I think that very few have sigh'd 
 
 When Fate at last has found them, 
 Though bitter foes were by their side, 
 
 And barren moss around them : 
 I think that some have died of drought, 
 
 And some have died of drinking ; 
 I think that naught is worth a thought, — 
 
 And I'm a fool for thinking ! 
 
MY I.ITTLK COUSINS. 
 
 T AUCll on, tail Cousins, for to yr»ii 
 
 All life is joyous yet ; 
 Your hearts have all things to pursue, 
 
 And nothing to regret ; 
 Aiul evevy llower to you is tair ; 
 
 And every month is May : 
 You've not been introduced to Care,— 
 
 Laugh on: laugh on to-day! 
 
 Old Time will lling his clouds ere long 
 
 Upon those sunny eyes ; 
 The voice whose every word is song, 
 
 Will set itself to sighs ; 
 Your quiet slumbers. — hopes and fears 
 
 Will chase their rest away : 
 To-morrow vou'll le sheddiuii teai-s, — 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
MY LITTLE COUSINS. 
 
 Oh yes, if any truth is found 
 
 In the dull schoolman's theme, 
 If friendship is an empty sound, 
 
 And love an idle dream, 
 If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue 
 
 Too soon on life's long way, 
 At least he'll run with you a league ; — 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright 
 
 As childhood's hues depart ; 
 You may be lovelier to the sight, 
 
 And dearer to the heart ; 
 You may be sinless still, and see 
 
 This earth still green and gay ; 
 But what you are you will not be ; 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 D'er me have many winters crept 
 With less of grief than joy ; 
 
MV LITTLE COUSINS. 
 
 But I have learn'd, and toil'd, and wept ; 
 
 I am no more a boy ! 
 I've never had the gout, 'tis true ; 
 
 M}^ hair is hardly grey ; 
 But now I cannot laugh like you : 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
 I used to have as glad a face, 
 
 As shadowless a brow ; 
 I once could run as blithe a race 
 
 As you are running now ; 
 But never mind how I behave, 
 
 Don't interrupt your play ; 
 And though I look so very grave, 
 
 Laugh on, laugh on to-day ! 
 
LAN DOR. 
 
THE EFFECTS OF AGE. 
 
 "XT'ES, I write verses now and then, 
 
 But blunt and flaccid is my pen. 
 No longer talked of by young men 
 
 As rather clever. 
 In their last quarter are my eyes, 
 You see it by their form and size, 
 Is it not time, then, to be wise? — 
 
 Or now, or never. 
 
 Fairest that ever sprang from Eve ! 
 While time allows the short reprieve 
 Just look at me ! Could you believe 
 'Twas once a lover ? 
 
 .S 33 
 
THE EFFECTS OF AGE. 
 
 I cannot clear the five-barred gate, 
 But trying first it's timber's state, 
 Climb stiffly up, take breath and wait, 
 To trundle over. 
 
 Through galopade I cannot swing 
 
 Th' entangling bloo.iis of beauty's spring 5 
 
 I cannot say the tender thing, 
 
 Be't true or false. 
 And am beginning to opine 
 Those girls are only half divine 
 Whose waists you wicked boys entwine 
 
 In giddy waltz. 
 
 r fear that arm above that shoulder, 
 I wish them wiser, graver, older, 
 Sedater, and no harm if colder. 
 And panting less. 
 
UNDER THE LINDENS. 
 
 Ah ! people were not half so wild 
 In former days, when, starchly mild, 
 Upon her high-heeled Essex smiled 
 The brave Queen Bess. 
 
 UNDER THE LINDENS. 
 
 T T NDER the lindens lately sat 
 
 A couple, and no more, in chat; 
 I wondered what they would be at 
 Under the lindens. 
 
 I saw four eyes and four lips meet ; 
 I heard the words "How sweet! how sweet! 
 Had then the fairies giv^en a treat 
 Under the lindens ? 
 
 1 pondered long and could not tell 
 What dainty i)leased them both so well : 
 Bees I Bees 1 was it your hydromel 
 Under the lindens ? 
 
 .^5 
 
NO LONGER JEALOUS. 
 T REMEMBER the time ere his temples were 
 
 And I frowned at the things he'd the boldness to 
 
 say, 
 But now he's grown old, he may say what he will, 
 I laugh at his nonsense and take nothing ill. 
 
 Indeed I must say he's a little improved, 
 
 For he watches no longer the " slily beloved," 
 
 No longer as once he awakens my fears. 
 
 Not a glance he perceives, not a whisper he hears. 
 
 If he heard one of late, it has never transpired, 
 For his only delight is to see me admired ; 
 And now pray what better return can I make, 
 Than to flirt and be always admired— for his sak^ ? 
 
DEFIANCE. 
 
 /''^ATCH her and hold her if you can. . . 
 
 See, she defies you with her fan, 
 Shuts, opens, and then holds it spread 
 In threatening guise above your head. 
 Ah ! why did you not start before 
 She reached the porch and closed the door ? 
 Simpleton ! will you never learn 
 That girls and time will not return ; 
 Of each you should have made the most; 
 Once gone, they are forever lost. 
 In vain your knuckles knock your brow, 
 In vain will you remember how 
 Like a slim brook the gamesome maid 
 Sparkled, and ran into the shade. 
 
 37 
 
T 
 
 THE ONE WHITE HAIR. 
 
 HE wisest of the wise 
 Listen to pretty lies 
 
 And love to hear them told : 
 Doubt not that Solomon 
 Listened to many a one, — 
 Some in his youth, and more when he grew old 
 
 I never was among 
 
 The choir of Wisdom's song, 
 
 But pretty lies loved I, 
 As much as any king 
 %hen youth was on the wing, 
 And (must it then be told) when youth had 
 quite gone by. 
 
 Alas ! and I have not 
 The pleasant hour forgot 
 
 When one pert lady said, 
 
LITTLE AGLAE. 
 
 " O Landor ! I am quite 
 Bewildered with affright ! 
 I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head I " 
 
 Another more benign 
 
 Drew out that hair of mine, 
 
 And in her own dark hair 
 Pretended it was found, 
 That one, and twirled it round . . . 
 Fair as she was, she never was so fair ! 
 
 LITTLE AGLAE. 
 
 {To her father, on her statue being called like her.) 
 
 T7ATHER! the little girl we see 
 
 Is not, I fancy, so like me . • . 
 You never hold her on your knee. 
 
SIXTEEN. 
 
 When she came home, the other day, 
 You kissed ; but I cannot say 
 She kissed you first and ran away. 
 
 SIXTEEN. 
 
 T N Clementina's artless mien 
 
 Lucilla asks me what I see — 
 And are the roses of sixteen 
 Enough for me ? 
 
 Lucilla asks, if that be all, 
 
 Have I not culled as sweet before ? 
 Ah yes, Lucilla, and their fall 
 I still deplore. 
 
 I now behold another scene. 
 
 Where pleasure beams with heaven's own light, 
 More pure, more constant, more serene, 
 And not less bright. 
 
PL A YS. 
 
 Faith, on whose breast the Loves repose, 
 
 Whose chain of flowers no force can sever ; 
 And Modesty, who, when she goes, 
 Is gone, forever ! 
 
 PLAYS. 
 
 A LAS, how soon the hours are over 
 Counted us out to play the lover ! 
 And how much narrower is the stage 
 Alloted us to play the sage ! 
 But when we play the fool, how wide 
 The theatre expands ! beside. 
 Flow long the audience sit before us : 
 How many prompters, what a chorus I 
 
MOORE. 
 
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 
 
 'nr^HE time I've lost in wooing, 
 In watching and pursuing 
 
 The light that lies 
 
 In woman's eyes, 
 Has been my heart's undoing. 
 Tho' Wisdom oft has sought me, 
 I scorn'd the lore she brought me, 
 
 My only books 
 
 Were woman's looks, 
 And folly's all they taught me. 
 
 Her smile whe-n Beauty granted, 
 I hung with gaze enclianted, 
 
THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. 
 
 Like him the sprite 
 
 Whom maids by night 
 Oft meet in glen that's haunted. 
 Like him, too, Beauty won me ; 
 
 If once their ray 
 
 Was turn'd away, 
 O ! winds could not outrun me. 
 
 And are those follies going? 
 And is my i^rond heart growing 
 
 Too cold or wise 
 
 For brilliant eyes 
 Again to set it glowing? 
 No — vain, alas! th' endeavor 
 Fron) bonds so sweet to sever ; — 
 
 Poor Wisdom's chance 
 
 Against a glance 
 Is now as weak as ever. 
 
 46 
 
DEAR FANNY. 
 
 " O HE has beauty, but still you must keep 
 your heart cool : 
 She has wit, but you musn't be caught so:" 
 Thus Reason advises, but Reason's a fool, 
 And 'tis not the first time I have thought so, 
 
 Dear Fanny, 
 'Tis not the first time I have thought so. 
 
 " She is lovely ; then love her, nor let the bliss fly; 
 
 'Tis the charm of youth's vanishing season;" 
 Thus Love has advised me, and who will deny 
 
 That Love reasons much better than Reason, 
 Dear Fanny ? 
 
 Love reasons much better than Reason. 
 
 47 
 
A TEMPLE TO FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 " A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, en- 
 chanted, 
 
 " I'll build in this garden, — the thought is 
 divine ! " 
 Her temple was built, and she now only wanted 
 
 An image of Friendship to place on the shrine. 
 She flew to a sculptor, who set down before her 
 
 A Friendship, the fairest his art could invent ; 
 But so cold and so dull, that the youthful ado';er 
 
 Saw plainly this was not the idol she meant. 
 
 " Oh never," she cried, ''could I think of enshrining 
 An image whose looks are so joyless and dim : — 
 
 [\\\[ yon little god, upon roses reclining. 
 
 We'll make, if you please, sir, a Friendship of 
 
 him." 
 
 48 
 
REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. 
 
 So the bargain was struck : with the Httle god laden 
 
 She joyfully flew to her shrine \\-\ the grove ; 
 
 "Farewell," said the sculptor, "you're not the first 
 
 maiden 
 
 Who came but for Friendship and took away 
 
 Love." 
 
 REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. 
 
 T3 EASON, and Folly, and Beauty, they say 
 Went on a party of pleasure one day : 
 
 Folly play'd 
 
 Around the maid, 
 The bells of his cap rang merrily out ; 
 
 While Reason took 
 
 To his sermon-book — 
 O ! which was the pleasanter no one need doubt, 
 Which was the pleasanter no one need doubt. 
 
REASON, FOLLY, AND BEAUTY. 
 
 Beauty, who likes to be thought very sage, 
 Turn'ci for a moment to Reason's dull page, 
 
 Till Folly said, 
 
 " Look here, sweet maid ! " — 
 The sight of his cap brought her back to herself, 
 
 While Reason read 
 
 His leaves of lead, 
 With no one to mind him, poor sensible elf ! 
 No, — no one to mind him, poor sensible elf! 
 
 Then Reason grew jealous of Folly's gay cap ; 
 Had he that on, he her heart might entrap— 
 
 ^< There it is," 
 
 Quoth Folly, "old quiz!" 
 (Folly was always good-natured, 'tis said.) 
 
 "Under the sun 
 
 There's no such fun, "^ 
 
 As Reason with my cap and bells on his head, 
 Reason with my cap and bells on his head ! " 
 
MINERVA'S THIMBLE. 
 
 Bat Reason the head-dress so awkwardly wore, 
 That Beauty now Hked him still less than before : 
 
 While Folly took 
 
 Old Reason's book, 
 And twisted the leaves in a cap of such ton^ 
 
 That Beauty vow'd 
 
 (Tho' not aloud) 
 She liked him still better in that than his own, 
 Yes, — liked him still better in that than his own, 
 
 MINERVA'S THIMBLE. 
 
 "\/^OUNG Jessica sat all the day. 
 
 With heart o'er idle love-thoughts pining ; 
 Her needle bright beside her lay, 
 
 So active once ! — now idly shining. 
 Ah, Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts 
 
 That love and mischief are most nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
MINERVA'S THIMBLE. 
 
 The child, who with a magnet plays, 
 
 Well knowing all its arts, so wily, 
 The tempter near a needle lays, 
 
 And laughing, says, " we'll steal it slily." 
 The needle, having nought to do, 
 
 Is pleased to let the magnet wheedle, 
 Till closer, closer come the two. 
 
 And off, at length, elopes the needle. 
 
 Now, had this needle turn'd its eye 
 
 To some gay reticule's construction, 
 It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie. 
 
 Nor felt the magnet's sly seduction. 
 Thus, girls, would you keep quiet hearts, 
 
 Your snowy fingers must be nimble ; 
 The safest shield against the darts 
 
 Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble. 
 
HOOD. 
 
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF 
 CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 A H me ! those old familiar bounds ! 
 
 That classic house, those classic grounds 
 My pensive thought recalls ! 
 What tender urchins now confine, 
 What little captives now repine, 
 Within yon irksome walls? 
 
 Ay, that's the very house ! I know 
 Its ugly windows, ten a-row ! 
 
 Its chimneys in the rear ! 
 And there's the iron rod so high, 
 That drew the thunder from the sky 
 
 And turn'd our table-beer ! 
 
ODE ON CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 There I was birch'd ! there I was bred ' 
 There like a little Adam fed 
 
 From Learning's woeful tree ! 
 The \7eary tasks I used to con ! — ' 
 The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! — 
 
 Most fruitless leaves to me ! — 
 
 The summon'd class ! — the awful bow ' — 
 I wonder who is master now 
 
 And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
 How many ushers now employs, 
 How many maids to see the boys 
 
 Have nothing in their heads ! 
 
 And Mrs. S * * * ?— Doth she abet 
 
 (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet 
 
 Some favour'd two or three, — 
 
 The little Crichtons of the hour, 
 
 Her muffin-medals that devour, 
 
 A.nd swill her prize — bohea ? 
 56 
 
ODE ON CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 Ah, there's the playground ! there's the lime, 
 Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 
 
 So wildly I have read ! — 
 Who sits there 7iow, and skims the cream 
 Of young Romance, and w^eaves a dream 
 
 Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 
 
 Who struts, the Randall of the walk? 
 Who models tiny heads in chalk ? 
 
 Who scoops the light canoe ? 
 What early genius buds apace ? 
 Where's Poynter ? Harris? Bowers? Chase? 
 
 Hal Baylis? blithe Carew ? 
 
 Alack ! they're gone — a thousand ways ! 
 And some are serving in " the Greys," 
 
 And some have perish' d young ! — 
 Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
 Hal Baylis drives the watie of life ; 
 
 And blithe Carew — is hung ! 
 
ODE ON CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 Grave Bovvers leaches ABC 
 To Savages at Owyhee ; 
 
 Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
 All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — ■ 
 New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 
 
 '' And push us from our forms I " 
 
 Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, 
 And leap, and skip, and mob about. 
 
 At play where we have pla3^'d ! 
 Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine 
 Their crony arms ; some in the shine, — 
 
 And some are in the shade ! 
 
 Lo there what mix'd conditions run ! 
 The orphan lad; the widow's son; 
 
 And Fortune's favor' d care — 
 The wealthy-born, for whom she hath 
 Mac-Adamised the future path — 
 
 The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 
 
ODE ON CLAPIIAM ACADEMY. 
 
 Some brightly starr'd — some evil born, — 
 For honour some, and some for scorn, — 
 
 For fair or foul renown ! 
 Good, bad, indiif'rent — none may lack ! 
 Look, here's a White, and there's a pjlack ! 
 
 And there's a Creole brown ! 
 
 Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
 And wish their " frugal sires would keep 
 
 Their only sons at home ; " — 
 Some tease the future tense, and plan 
 The full-grown doings of the man, 
 
 And pant for years to come ! 
 
 A foohsh wish ! There's one at hoop ; 
 And four at Jives 1 and five who stoop 
 
 The marble taw to speed ! 
 And one that curvets in and out, 
 Reining his fellow Cob about, — 
 
 Would I were in his stead I 
 
 59 
 
ODE ON CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
 That boyish harness off, to swop 
 
 With this world's heavy van — 
 To toil, to tug. O little fool ! 
 Whilst thou canst be a horse at school. 
 
 To wish to be a man ! 
 
 Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
 To wear a crown, — to be a king ! 
 
 And sleep on regal down ! 
 Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; 
 Far happier is thy head that wears 
 
 That hat without a crown ! 
 
 And dost thou think that years acquire 
 New added joys? Dost think thy sire 
 
 More happy than his son ? 
 That manhood's mirth? — Oh, go thy ways 
 To Drury-lane when plays^ 
 
 And see how forced our fun ! 
 
ODE ON CLAPHAM ACADEMY . 
 
 Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare !- 
 Our tops are spun with coils of care, 
 
 Our dumps are no deUght ! — 
 The Elgin marbles are but tame, 
 And 'tis at best a sorry game 
 
 To fly the Muse's kite ! 
 
 Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
 Our topmost joys fall dull and dead 
 
 Like balls with no rebound ! 
 And often with a faded eye 
 We look behind, and send a sigh 
 
 Towards that merry ground ! 
 
 Then be contented. Thou hast got 
 The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 
 
 There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
 Thou' It find thy Manhood all too fast — 
 Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 
 
 A sorry breaking-up ! 
 
 6i 
 
I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 
 
 A PRETTY task, Miss S , to ask 
 
 A Benedictine pen, 
 That cannot quite at freedom write 
 
 Like those of other men. 
 No lover's plaint my Muse must paint, 
 
 To fill this page's span, 
 But be correct and recollect 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Pray only think for pen and ink 
 
 How hard to get along. 
 That may not turn on words that burn 
 
 Or Love, the life of song ! 
 Nine Muses, if I chooses, I 
 
 May woo all in a clan, 
 
 But one Miss S I daren't address — 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 62 
 
I\M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 
 
 Scribblers unwed, wiih little liead. 
 
 May eke it out with heart, 
 And in their lays it often i)lays 
 
 A rare first-fiddle part. 
 They make a kiss to rhyme with bliss, 
 
 But if / so began, 
 I have my fears about my ears — 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Upon your cheek I may not speak, 
 
 Nor on your lip be warm, 
 I must be wise about your eyes, 
 
 And formal with your form, 
 Of all that sort of thing, in short, 
 
 On T. H. Bayly's plan, 
 I must not twine a single line — 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 A watchman's part compels my heart 
 To keep you off its beat, 
 
 6j 
 
I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. 
 
 And I might dare as soon to swear 
 
 At you as at ' your feet. 
 I can't expire in passion's fire 
 
 As other poets can — 
 My life (she's by) won't let me die — 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 
 Shut out from love, denied a dove, 
 
 Forbidden bow and dart, 
 Without a groan to call my own, 
 
 With neither hand nor heart, 
 To Hymen vovv'd, and not allovv'd 
 
 To flirt e'en with your fan, 
 
 Here end, as just a friend, I must — 
 
 I'm not a single man. 
 64 
 
"PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE." 
 
 T'LL tell yon a story that's not in Tom Moore . 
 
 Young Love likes to knock at a pretty girl's 
 
 door : 
 
 So he call'd upon Lucy — 'twas just ten o'clock — 
 
 Like a spruce single man, with a smart double 
 
 knock. 
 
 Now a hand-maid, whatever her fingers be at, 
 Will run like a puss when she hears a raf-tat : 
 So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more 
 Had question'd the stranger and answer'd the door. 
 
 The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe ; 
 For the moment will come when such comers must 
 
 So she kiss'd him, and whisper'd — poor innocent 
 
 thing — 
 *' The next time you come, love, pray come with a 
 
 65 
 
THE WATER PERI'S SONG. 
 
 I .'ARE WELL, farewell to my mother's own 
 
 daughter, 
 The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the 
 wave ! 
 The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water, 
 Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her 
 grave. 
 
 This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier, 
 This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall, 
 
 And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear 
 Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all ! 
 
 Farewell, farewell to the child of Al Hassan, 
 My mother's own daughter — the last of her 
 race — 
 
 She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, 
 And sleeps in the water that washes her face. 
 
 66 
 
I'VE A DARLING OF MY OWN. 
 
 '\ yT Y mother bids me spend my smiles 
 On all who come and call me fair, 
 As crumbs are thrown upon the tiles, 
 To all the sparrows of the air. 
 
 But I've a darling of my own 
 
 For whom I hoard my little stock — 
 
 What if I chirp him all alone, 
 
 And leave mamma to feed the Hock ! 
 
 TO MINERVA. 
 
 From the Greek. 
 
 Y temples throb, my })ulses boil, 
 
 I'm sick of Song, and Ode, and Ballad- 
 
 So Thyrsis, take the midnight oil, 
 
 And pour it on a lobster salad. 
 67 
 
 M 
 
TO MINERVA. 
 
 My brain is dull, niy sight is foul, 
 I cannot write a verse, or read — 
 
 Then Pallas take away thine Owl, 
 And let us have a Lark nistead. 
 
 68 
 
HOLMES. 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 " Man wants but little here below." 
 
 T 4TrLE I ask; my wants are few, 
 
 1 only wish a hut of stone, 
 (A very plai7i brown stone will do,) 
 
 Til at I may call my own ; 
 And close at hand is such a one, 
 In I onder street that fronts the sun. 
 
 Plain food is quite enough for me ; 
 
 Three courses are as good as ten ; — 
 If Nature can subsist on three, 
 
 Thank Heaven for three. Amen. 
 I always thought cold victual nice ; — 
 My cJioice would be vanilla-ice. 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 I care not much for gold or land ; — 
 
 Give me a mortgage here and there, — • 
 
 Some good bank-stock, — some note of hand, 
 
 Or trifling railroad share, — 
 
 I only ask that Fortune send 
 
 A little more than I shall s[)end. 
 
 • 
 Honors are silly toys, I know, 
 
 And titles are but empty names; 
 
 I would, pei'haps^ be Plenipo, — 
 
 But only near St. James ; 
 
 I'm very sure I should not care 
 
 To fill our Gubernator's chair. 
 
 Jewels are bawbles ; 'tis a sin 
 
 To care for such unfruitful things ; — 
 One good-sized diamond in a |)in, — 
 Some, not so large, in rings, — • 
 A ruby, and a pearl, or so. 
 Will do for me; — I laugh at show. 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 My dame should dress in cheap attire ; 
 (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)— 
 1 own perhaps I might desire 
 
 Some shawls of true Cashmere, — 
 Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
 Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 
 
 I would not have the horse I drive 
 
 So fast that folks must stop and stare; 
 An easy gait — two, forty-live — 
 
 Suits me ; I do not care ; — 
 Perhaps, for just a single spurt, 
 Some seconds less would do no hurt. 
 
 Of pictures, I should like to own 
 
 Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 
 I love so much their style and tone, — 
 
 One Turner, and no more, 
 (A landscape,— foreground golden dirt, — 
 The sunshine painted with a squirt.) 
 
CONTENTMENT. 
 
 Of books but few, — some fifty score 
 
 For daily use, and bound for wear ; 
 The rest upon an upper floor ; 
 
 Some little luxury there 
 Of red morocco's gilded gleam, 
 And vellum rich as country cream. 
 
 Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 
 
 Which others often show for pride, 
 / value for their power to please, 
 And selfish churls deride; — 
 Ofie Stradivarius, I confess, 
 Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 
 
 Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
 Nor ape the glittering upstart fool ; — 
 Shall not carved tables serve my turn, 
 
 But all must be of buhl ? 
 Give grasping pomp its double share, — 
 I ask but one recumbent chair. 
 
THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 Thus humble let me live and die, 
 
 Nor long for Midas' golden touch ; 
 If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
 I shall not miss them viuch^ — 
 Too grateful for the blessing lent 
 Of simple tastes and mind content ! 
 
 THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 T SAW him once before. 
 
 As he passed by the door, 
 
 And again 
 The pavement stones resound, 
 As he totters o'er the ground 
 
 With his cane. 
 
 They say that in his prime, 
 Ere the pruning-knife of Time 
 Cut him down, 
 
 75 
 
THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 Not a belter man was found 
 By the crier on his round 
 
 Through the town. 
 
 But now he walks the streets, 
 And he looks at all he meets 
 
 Sad and wan, 
 And he shakes his feeble head, 
 That it seems as if he said, 
 
 " They are gone ! " 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the lips that he has prest 
 
 In their bloom ; 
 And the names he loved to hear 
 Have been carved for many a year 
 
 On the tomb. 
 
 My grandmamma has said — 
 Poor old lady! she is dead 
 Long ago — 
 
THE LAST LEAF. 
 
 That he had a Roman nose, 
 And his cheek was Hke a rose 
 In the snow. 
 
 Bat now his nose is thin, 
 And it rests upon his chin 
 
 Like a staff; 
 And a crook is in his back, 
 And a melancholy crack 
 
 In his laugh, 
 
 I know it is a sin 
 For me to sit and grin 
 
 At him here ; 
 But the old three-cornered hat, 
 And the breeches, and all that. 
 
 Are so queer ! 
 
 And if I should live to be 
 The last leaf upon the tree 
 In the spring, 
 
 77 
 
DAILY TRIALS, 
 
 Let them smile as I do now, 
 At the old forsaken bough 
 Where I cling. 
 
 DAILY TRIALS. 
 
 /'"XH, there are times, 
 
 When all this fret and tumult that we heai 
 Do seem more stale than to the sexton's eai 
 
 His own dull chimes. 
 
 Ding dong ! ding dong ! 
 
 The world is in a simmer like a sea 
 Over a pent volcano — woe is me, 
 
 All the day long ! 
 
 From crib to shroud 1 
 
 Nurse o'er our cradle screameth lullaby, 
 
 And friends in boots tramp round us as we die 
 
 Snuffling aloud. 
 
 78 
 
DAIL Y TRIALS. 
 
 A*- morning's call 
 
 The small-voiced pug-dog welcomes in the siin, 
 And flea-bit mongrels, wakening one by one, 
 
 Give answer all. 
 
 When evening dim 
 
 Draws round us, then the lonely caterwaul, 
 Tart solo, sour duet, and general squall, — 
 
 These are our hymn. 
 
 Women, with tongues 
 
 Like polar needles, ever on the jar, — 
 Men, plugless word-spouts, whose deep foun- 
 tains are 
 
 Within their lunojs. 
 
 Children, with drums 
 
 Strapped round them by the fond paternal 
 ass, — 
 
 Peripatetics with a blade of grass 
 Between their thumbs. 
 
DAILY TRIALS. 
 
 Vagrants, whose arts 
 
 Have caged some devil in their mad machine, 
 Which grinding, squeaks, with husky groans 
 between, 
 
 Come out by starts. 
 
 Cockneys, that kill 
 
 Thin horses of a Sunday, — men with clams, 
 Hoarse as young bisons roaring for their dams 
 
 From hill to hill. 
 
 Soldiers, with guns. 
 
 Making a nuisance of the blessed air, — 
 Child-crying bellmen, — children in despair 
 
 Screeching for buns. 
 
 Storms, thunders, waves ! 
 
 Howl, crash, and bellow till ye get your fill ; 
 
 Ye sometimes rest ; men never can be still 
 
 But in their graves ! 
 
 80 
 
MY AUNT. 
 
 "1\ /r Y aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 
 Long years have o'er her flown ; 
 Yet still she strains the aching clasp 
 
 That binds her virgin zone ; 
 I know it hurts her, — though she looks 
 
 As cheerful as she can ; 
 Her waist is ampler than her life, 
 For life is but a span. 
 
 My aunt ! my poor deluded aunt ! 
 
 Her hair is almost gray : 
 Why will she train that winter curl 
 
 In such a spring-like way ? 
 How can she lay her glasses down, 
 
 And say she reads as well, 
 When, through a double convex lens, 
 
 She justs makes out to spell? 
 
MY AUNT. 
 
 Her father, — grandpapa ! forgive 
 
 This erring Hp iis smiles, — 
 Vowed she should inake the finest girl 
 
 Within a hundred miles ; 
 He sent her to a stjdish school ; 
 
 'Twas in her thirteenth June ; 
 And with her, as the rules required, 
 
 " Two towels and a spoon." 
 
 They braced my aunt against a board, 
 
 To make her straight and tall ; 
 They laced her ui), they starved her down, 
 
 To make her light and small ; 
 They pinched her feet, they singed her hair, 
 
 They screwed it up wilh pins ; — 
 Oh, never mortal suffered more 
 
 In penance for her sins. 
 
 So, when my precious aunt was done, 
 
 My grand sire brought her back ; 
 
 82 
 
MY AUNT. 
 
 (By daylight, lest some rabid youth 
 Might follow in the track ;) 
 
 " Ah ! " said my grandsire, as he shook 
 Some powder in his pan, 
 
 ** What could this lovely creature do 
 Against a desperate man ! '* 
 
 Alas ! nor chariot, nor barouche, 
 
 Nor bandit cavalcade, 
 Tore from the trembling father's arms 
 
 His all-accomplished maid. 
 For her how happy had it been ! 
 
 And Heaven had spared to me 
 To see one sad, ungathered rose 
 
 On my ancestral tree. 
 
TO AN INSECT. 
 
 T LOVE to hear thine earnest voice, 
 Wherever thou art hid, 
 Thou testy little dogmatist, 
 Thou pretty Katydid ! 
 Thou mindest me of gentlefolks, — 
 
 Old gentlefolks are they, — 
 Thou say' St an undisputed thing 
 In such a solemn way. 
 
 Thou art a female. Katydid ! 
 
 I know it by the trill 
 That quivers through thy piercing notes, 
 
 So petulant and shrill. 
 I think there is a knot of you 
 
 Beneath the hollow tree, — 
 A knot of spinster Katydids, — 
 
 Do Katydids drink tea? 
 
TO AN INSECT. 
 
 Oh, tell me where did Katy live, 
 
 And what did Katy do? 
 And was she very fair and young, 
 
 And yet so wicked, too? 
 Did Katy love a naughty man. 
 
 Or kiss more cheeks than one? 
 I warrant Katy did no more 
 
 Than many a Kate has done. 
 
 Dear me ! I'll tell you all about 
 
 My fuss with little Jane, 
 And Ann, with whom I used to walk 
 
 So often down the lane, 
 And all that tore their locks of black, 
 
 Or wet their eyes of blue, — 
 Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 
 
 What did poor Katy do ? 
 
 Ah no ! the living oak shall crash, 
 That stood for ages still, 
 
TO AN INSECT, 
 
 The rock shall rend its mossy base 
 And thunder down the hill, 
 
 Before the little Katydid 
 
 Shall add one word, to tell 
 
 The mystic story of the maid 
 
 Whose name she knows so well. 
 
 Peace to the ever-murmuring race ! 
 
 And when the latest one 
 Shall fold in death her feeble wings 
 
 Beneath the autumn sun, 
 Then shall she raise her fainting voice. 
 
 And lift her drooping lid, 
 And then the child of future years 
 
 Shall hear what Katy did. 
 
 86 
 
THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 
 
 "^ I ^HERE are three ways in which men take 
 One's money from his purse, 
 
 And very hard it is to tell 
 
 Which of the three is worse ; 
 
 But all of them are bad enough 
 To make a body curse. 
 
 You're riding out some pleasant day, 
 And counting up your gains; 
 
 A fellow jumps from out a bush, 
 
 And takes your horse's reins, 
 
 Another hints some words about 
 A bullet in your brains. 
 
 It's hard to meet such pressing friends 
 
 In such a lonely spot ; 
 It's very hard to lose your cash, 
 
 But harder to be shot ; 
 
 And so you take your wallet out, 
 
 Though you would rather not, 
 87 
 
THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 
 
 Perhaps you're going out to dine, — 
 Some filthy creature begs, — 
 
 You'll hear about the cannon-ball 
 That carried off his pegs, 
 
 A.nd says it is a dreadful thing 
 
 For men to lose their legs. 
 
 He tells you of his starving wife, 
 
 His children to be fed. 
 Poor little, lovely innocents. 
 
 All clamorous for bread, — 
 And so you kindly help to put 
 
 A bachelor to bed. 
 
 You're sitting on your window-seat, 
 Beneath a cloudless moon; 
 
 You hear a sound, that seems to wear 
 The semblance of a tune, 
 
 As if a broken fife should strive 
 
 To drown a cracked bassoon. 
 
THE MUSIC-GRINDERS. 
 
 And nearer, nearer still, the tide 
 
 Of music seems to come, 
 There's something like a human voice, 
 
 And something like a drum; 
 You sit in speechless agony, 
 
 Until your ear is numb. 
 
 Poor " home, sweet home " should seem to be 
 
 A very dismal place ; 
 Your "auld acquaintance" all at once 
 
 Is altered in the face ; 
 Their discords sting through Burns and Moore, 
 
 Like hedgehogs drer.sed in lace. 
 
 You think they are crusaders, sent 
 
 From some infernal clime, 
 To pluck the eyes of Sentiment, 
 
 And dock the tail of Rhyme, 
 
 To crack the voice of Melody, 
 
 And break the legs of Time. 
 89 
 
THE M USIC- GRINDERS. 
 
 But hark ! the air again is still, 
 The music all is ground, 
 
 And silence, like a poultice, comes 
 To heal the blows of sound ; 
 
 It cannot be, — it is, — it is, — 
 A hat is going round ! 
 
 No ! Pay the dentist when he leaves 
 
 A fracture in your jaw, 
 And pay the owner of the bear. 
 
 That stunned you with his paw, 
 And buy the lobster that has had 
 
 Your knuckles in his claw ; 
 
 But if you are a portly man. 
 
 Put on your fiercest frown, 
 
 And talk about a constable 
 
 To turn them out of town ; 
 
 Then close your sentence with an oath, 
 And shut the window down I 
 
THE MUSIC'GRINDERS. 
 
 And if you are a slender man, 
 Not big enough for that, 
 
 Or, if you cannot make a speech, 
 Because you are a flat, 
 
 Go very quietly and drop 
 
 A button in the hat i 
 
 9» 
 
THACKERAY. 
 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 A STREET' there is in Paris famous, 
 
 For which no rhyme our language yields, 
 Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is — 
 
 The New Street of the little Fields. 
 And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, 
 
 But still in comfortable case ; 
 The which in youth I oft attended, 
 
 To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is — 
 A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, 
 
 Or hatchforth of all sorts of fishes, 
 That Greenwich never could outdo; 
 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, 
 Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace : 
 
 All these you eat at Terra's tavern, 
 In that one dish of Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Indeed a rich and savory stew 'tis; 
 
 And true philosophers, niethinks. 
 Who love all sorts of natural beauties, 
 
 Should love good victuals and good drinks. 
 And Cordelier or Benedictine 
 
 Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, 
 Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, 
 
 Which served him up a Bouillabaisse. 
 
 1 wonder if the house still there is ? 
 Yes, here the lamp is, as before ; 
 The smiling red-cheeked ccaillcre is 
 
 Still opening oysters at the door. 
 
 96 
 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABALSSE. 
 
 Is Terr:^ still alive aiid able ? 
 
 I recollect his droll grimace : 
 He'd come and smile before your table, 
 
 And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse. 
 
 We enter — nothing's changed or older, 
 
 ''How's Monsieur Terr6, waiter, pray?" 
 The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder — 
 
 " Monsieur is dead this many a day." 
 " It is the lot of saint and sinner, 
 
 So honest Terre's run his race." 
 "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" 
 
 " Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? " 
 
 *' Oh, oui. Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer ; 
 
 " Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ? " 
 "Tell me a good one."— " That I can, sir: 
 
 The Chambertin with yellow seal." 
 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. 
 
 " So Terra's gone," I say, and sink in 
 My old accustom'd corner-place ; 
 
 ** He's done with feasting and with drinking, 
 With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse." 
 
 My old accustomed corner here is, 
 
 The table still is in the nook ; 
 Ah ! vanished many a busy year is 
 
 This well-known chair since last I took. 
 Wlien first I saw ye, cari hwghi, 
 
 I'd scarce a beard upon my face, 
 And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, 
 
 I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse. 
 
 V 
 
 Where are you, old companions trusty 
 Of early days here met to dine ? 
 
 Come, waiter, quick ! a flagon crusty — 
 I'll pledge them in the good old wine, 
 
 93 
 
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE, 
 
 The kind old voices and old faces 
 My memory can quick retrace ; 
 
 Around the board they take their places, 
 And share the wine and Bouillabaisse. 
 
 There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage ; 
 
 There's laughing Tom is laughing yet ; 
 There's brave Augustus drives his carriage ; 
 
 There's poor old Fred in the Gazette ; 
 On James's head the grass is growing : 
 
 Good Lord ! the world has wagged apace 
 Since here we set the claret flowing, 
 
 And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse. 
 
 Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting I 
 I mind me of a time that's gone, 
 
 When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, 
 In this same place — but not alone, 
 
 99 
 
A 7^ THE CHURCH GATE. 
 
 A fair young form was nestled near me, 
 A dear, dear face looked fondly up, 
 
 And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me 
 — There's no one now to share my cup. 
 
 I drink it as the Fates ordain it. 
 
 Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes : 
 Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it 
 
 In memory of the dear old times. 
 Welcome to wine, whate'er the seal is, 
 
 And sit you down and say your grace 
 With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is. 
 
 — Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse ! 
 
 AT THE CHURCH GATE. 
 
 A 
 
 LTHOUGH I enter not, 
 Yet round about the spot 
 Ofttimes I hover : 
 
AT THE CHURCH GATE. 
 
 And near the sacred gate 
 
 With longing eyes I wait 
 
 Expectant of her. 
 
 The Minster bells toll out 
 Above the city's rout, 
 
 And noise and humming : 
 They've hushed the Minster bell; 
 The organ 'gins to swell : 
 
 She's coming, she's coming! 
 
 My lady comes at last, 
 
 Timid, and stepping fast, 
 And hastening hither, 
 
 With modest eyes downcast : 
 
 She comes— she's here— she's past- 
 May Heaven go v/ith her ! 
 
 Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint ! 
 Pour out your praise or plaint 
 Meekly and duly ; 
 
THE CANE-BOTTOM' D CHAIR, 
 
 I will not enter there, 
 To sully your pure prayer 
 With thoughts unruly. 
 
 But suffer me to pace 
 Round the forbidden place, 
 
 Lingering a minute 
 Like outcast spirits who wait 
 And see through heaven's gate 
 
 Angels within it. 
 
 THE CANE-BOTTOM'D CHAIR. 
 
 T N tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 
 And a ragged old jacket perfumed with segars, 
 Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
 I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 
 
 To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure, 
 But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure ; 
 
THE CANE-BOTTOM' D CHAIR. 
 
 And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 
 
 Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way 
 
 This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks 
 With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books, 
 And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
 Crack' d bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes 
 from friends. 
 
 Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all 
 
 crack' d), 
 Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; 
 A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see ; 
 What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 
 
 No better divan need the Sultan require 
 Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
 And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get, 
 From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 
 
THE CANE-BOTTOM' D CHAIR, 
 
 That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ^ 
 By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ; 
 A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn : 
 'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 
 
 Long, long through the hours, and the night, and 
 
 the chimes. 
 Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and 
 
 old times ; 
 As we sit in the fog made of rich Latakie, 
 This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 
 
 But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest. 
 There's one that I love and I cherish tlie best : 
 For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
 I never would change thee, my cane-bottom' d chair. 
 
 'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten 
 
 seat, 
 
 With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; 
 104 
 
THE CANE -BOTTOMED CHAIR. 
 
 Bur since the fair inorning when Fanny sa.t there, 
 I bless thee and love thee, my cane-bo ttom'd chair, 
 
 Jf chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 
 A thrill must have pass'd through your wither'd old 
 
 arms ; 
 I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; 
 1 wish'd myself turned to a cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 It was but a moment she sat in this place, 
 She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! 
 A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 
 And she sat there, and bloom' d in my cane-bottom'd 
 chair. 
 
 And so I have valued my chair ever since, 
 
 Tike the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince ; 
 
 Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare, 
 
 The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 
 
 When the candles burn low, and the company's 
 
 gone, 
 In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
 I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair — 
 My Fanny I see in \i\y cane-bottom' d chair. 
 
 She comes from the past and revisits my room ; 
 She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom \ 
 So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair. 
 And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair. 
 
 PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 
 
 (Lines written to an album print.) 
 
 A S on this pictured page I look, 
 This pretty tale of line and hook 
 As though it were a novel-book 
 Amuses and engages : 
 
PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 
 
 I know them both, the boy and girl; 
 She is the daughter of an earl, 
 The lad (that has his hair in curl) 
 My lord the county's page is. 
 
 A pleasant place for such a pair ! 
 The fields lie basking in the glare ; 
 No breath of wind the heavy air 
 
 Of lazy summer quickens. 
 Hard by you see the castle tall : 
 The village nestles round the wall, 
 As round about the hen its small 
 
 Young progeny of chickens. 
 
 It is too hot to pace the keep : 
 To climb the turret is too steep; 
 My lord the earl is dozing deep, 
 His noonday dinner over: 
 
PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 
 
 The postern-warder is asleep 
 (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep' 
 And so from out the gate they creep, 
 And cross the fields of clover. 
 
 Their lines into the brook they launch ; 
 He lays his cloik upon a branch, 
 To guarantee his Lady Blanche 
 
 's delicate complexion : 
 He takes his rapier from his haunch, 
 That beardless doughty champion staunch ; 
 He'd drill it through the rival's paunch 
 
 That questioned his affection ! 
 
 O heedless pair of sportsmen slack ! 
 You never mark, though trout or jack, 
 Or little foolish stickleback. 
 
 Your baited snares may capture. 
 
PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX. 
 
 What care has slie for line and hook ? 
 She turns her back upon the brook, 
 Upon her lover's eyes to look 
 In senthiiental rapture. 
 
 O loving pair ! as thus I gaze 
 Upon the girl who smiles always, 
 The little hand that ever plays 
 
 Upon the lover's shoulder ; 
 In looking at your pretty shapes, 
 A sort of envious wish escapes 
 (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) 
 
 The Poet your beholder. 
 
 To be brave, handsome, twenty-two ; 
 With nothing else on earth to do, 
 But all day long to bill and coo : 
 
 It were a pleasant calling. 
 And had I such a partner sweet, 
 
THE MAHOGANY-TREE. 
 
 A tender heart for mine to beat, 
 A gentle hand my clasp to meet, — • 
 I'd let the world flow at my feet, 
 And never heed its brawling. 
 
 THE MAHOGANY-TREE. 
 
 /"^HRISTMAS is here: 
 Winds whistle shrill, 
 Icy and chill. 
 Little care we : 
 Little we fear 
 Weather without, 
 Sheltered about 
 The Mahogany-Tree. 
 
 Once on the boughs 
 Birds of rare plume 
 Sung, in its bloom ; 
 Night-birds are we : 
 
THE MAHOGANY-TREh 
 
 Here we carouse, 
 Singing like them, 
 Perched round the stem 
 Of the joliy old tree. 
 
 Here let us sport, 
 Boys, as we sit; 
 Laughter and wit 
 Flashing so free. 
 Life is but short — 
 When we are gone, 
 Let them sing on, 
 Round the old tree. 
 
 Evenings we knew 
 Happy as this ; 
 Faces we miss. 
 Pleasant to see. 
 
THE MAHOGANY-TREE. 
 
 Kind hearts and true, 
 Gentle and just. 
 Peace to your dust ! 
 We sins: round the tree. 
 
 Care, like a dun, 
 Lurks at the gate : 
 Let the dog wait ; 
 Happy we'll be ! 
 Drink, every one ; 
 Pile up the coals. 
 Fill the red bowls, 
 Round the old tree! 
 
 Drain we the cup,- 
 Friend, art afraid? 
 Spirits are laid — 
 In the Red Sea. 
 
THE MAHOGANY-TREE, 
 
 Mantle it up ; 
 Empty it yet ; 
 Let us forget 
 Round the old tree. 
 
 Sorrows, begone ! 
 Life and its ills, 
 Duns and their bills, 
 Bid we to flee. 
 Come with the dawn, 
 Blue-devil sprite, 
 Leave us to-night, 
 Round the old tree. 
 
 8 H3 
 
SAXE 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 
 
 A GAIN I hear that creakmg step ! — 
 He's rapping at the door ! — 
 Too well I know the boding sound 
 That ushers in a bore. 
 I do not tremble when I meet 
 
 The stoutest of my foes, 
 But Heaven defend me from the friend 
 Who comes — but never goes ! 
 
 He drops into my easy-chair, 
 
 And asks about the news; 
 
 He peers into my manuscript, 
 
 And gives his candid views ; 
 117 
 
MY FAMILIAR. 
 
 He tells me where he likes the line, 
 And where he's forced to grieve; 
 
 He takes the strangest liberties, — 
 But never takes his leave ! 
 
 He reads my daily paper through 
 
 Before I've seen a word ; 
 He scans the lyric (that I wrote), 
 
 And thinks it quite absurd; 
 He calmly smokes my last cigar, 
 
 And coolly asks for more ; 
 He opens everything he sees — ■ 
 
 Except the entry door ! 
 
 He talks about his fragile health, 
 And tells me of "the pains ; 
 
 He suffers from a score of ills 
 Of which he ne'er complains ; 
 
MV FAMILIAR. 
 
 And how he straggled once with Death 
 
 To keep the fiend at bay ; 
 On themes Hke those away he goes — 
 
 But never goes away ! 
 
 He tells me of the carping words 
 
 Some shallow critic wrote ; 
 And every precious paragraph 
 
 Familiarly can quote ; 
 He thinks the writer did me wrong ; 
 
 He'd like to run him through ! 
 He says a thousand pleasant things— 
 
 But never says " Adieu ! " 
 
 Whene'er he comes — that dreadful man- 
 Disguise it as I may, 
 
 I know that, like an autumn rain, 
 He'll last throughout the day. 
 
"Z?(9 YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED V 
 
 In vain I speak of urgent tasks; 
 
 In vain I scowl and pout ; 
 A frown is no extinguisher — 
 
 It does not put him out ! 
 
 I mean to take the knocker off, 
 
 Put crape upon the door, 
 Or hint to John that I am gone 
 
 To stay a month or more. 
 I do not tremble when I meet 
 
 The stoutest of my foes, 
 But Heaven defend me from the friend 
 
 Who never, never goes ! 
 
 ''DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED? 
 
 1\ /r ADAM, you are very pressing, 
 
 And I can't decline the task ; 
 With the slighest gift of guessing. 
 You would scarcely need to ask ! 
 
''DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED? 
 
 Don't you see a hint of marriage 
 
 In his sober-sided face, 
 In his rather careless carriage, 
 
 And extremely rapid pace? 
 
 If he's not committed treason, 
 Or some wicked action done, 
 
 Can you see the faintest reason 
 Why a bachelor should run ? 
 
 Why should he be in a flurry? 
 
 But a loving wife to greet 
 Is a circumstance to hurry 
 
 The most dignified of feet ! 
 
 When afar the man has spied her, 
 
 If the grateful, happy elf 
 Does not haste to be beside her, 
 
 He must be beside himself! 
 
*'Z)(9 YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED V 
 
 It is but a trifle, maybe, — 
 But observe his practised tone 
 
 When he cahns your stormy baby, 
 Just as if it were his own. 
 
 Do you think a certain meekness 
 You have mentioned in his looks, 
 
 Is a chronic optic weakness 
 
 That has come of reading books ? 
 
 Did you ever see his vision 
 
 Peering underneath a hood, 
 Save enough for recognition, 
 
 As a civil person should ? 
 
 Could a Capuchin be colder 
 When he glances, as he must, 
 
 At a finely rounded shoulder 
 Or a proudly swelling bust? 
 
''DO YOU THINK HE IS MARRIED? 
 
 Madam — think of every feature, 
 Then deny it if you can, — 
 
 He's a fond, connubial creature, 
 And a very married man ! 
 
LOCKER. 
 
TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 (suggested by a picture by MR. ROMNEY.) 
 
 *" I ^HIS relative of mine 
 
 Was she seventy and nine 
 When she died ? 
 By the canvas may be seen, 
 How she look'd at seventeen, 
 As a bride. 
 
 Beneath a summer tree 
 Her maiden reverie 
 
 Has a charm ; 
 Her ringlets are in taste ; 
 What an arm ! and what a waist 
 
 For an arm ! 
 
TO MY GRANDMOT'HER, 
 
 With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, 
 Lace, farthingale, and gay 
 
 Falbala^ 
 — Were Romney's Umning true, 
 What a lucky dog were you. 
 
 Grandpapa ! 
 
 Her lips are sweet as love ; 
 
 They are parting ! Do they move ? 
 
 Are they dumb? 
 Her eyes are blue, and beam 
 Beseechingly, and seem 
 
 To say, "Come." 
 
 What funny fancy slips 
 
 From between these cherry lips ? 
 
 Whisper me. 
 Sweet deity in paint, 
 What canon says I mayn't 
 
 Marry thee? 
 
TO MY GRAN-DMOTHER. 
 
 That good-for-nothing Time 
 Has a confidence snbHme ! 
 
 When I first 
 Saw this lady, in my youth, 
 Her winters had, forsooth, 
 
 Done their worst. 
 
 Her locks, as white as snow, 
 Once shamed the swarthy crow ; 
 
 By and by, 
 That fowl's avenging sprite 
 Set his cruel foot for spite / 
 
 Near her eye. 
 
 Her rounded form was lean, 
 
 And her silk was bombazine : — 
 
 Well I wot, 
 
 With her needles would she sit, 
 
 And for hours would she knit, — 
 
 Would she not? 
 Q 129 
 
TO MY GRANDMOTHER. 
 
 Ah, perishable clay ! 
 
 Her charms had dropped away- 
 One by one : 
 
 But if she heaved a sigh 
 
 With a burthen, it was, "Thy 
 Will be done." 
 
 In travail, as in tears. 
 
 With the fardel of her years 
 
 Overprest, — 
 In mercy she was borne 
 Where the weary and the worn 
 
 Are at rest. 
 
 I fain would meet you there ;— 
 
 If witching as you were, 
 
 Grandmamma, 
 
 This nether world agrees 
 
 That the better you must please 
 
 Grandpapa. 
 
 130 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER ENCLOSING A 
 LOCK OF HAIR. 
 
 "\7'ES, you were false, and though I'm free, 
 
 I still would be the slave of yore ; 
 Then join'd our years were thirty- three, 
 
 And now, — yes, now, I'm thirty-four. 
 And though you were not learned — w^ell, 
 
 I was not anxious you should grow so ; — 
 I trembled once beneath her spell 
 
 Whose spelling was extremely so-so ! 
 
 Bright season ! Why will Memory 
 
 Still haunt the path our rambles took, 
 The sparrow's nest that made you cry, 
 
 The lilies captured in the brook? 
 I lifted you from side to side, 
 
 You seem'd as light as that poor sparrow ; 
 I know who wish'd it twice as wide, 
 
 I think you thought it rather narrow. 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 
 
 Time was indeed, a little while ! 
 
 My pony could your heart compel; 
 And once, beside the meadow-stile, 
 
 I thought you loved me just as well; 
 I'd kiss'd your cheek ; in sweet surprise 
 
 Your troubled gaze said plainly, "Should he?" 
 But doubt soon fled those daisy eyes, — 
 
 " He could not wish to vex me, could he ? " 
 
 The brightest eyes are often sad. 
 
 But your fair cheek, so lightly sway'd, 
 Could ripple into dimples glad, 
 
 For, O ray stars, what mirth we made ! 
 The brightest tears are soonest dried. 
 
 But your young love and dole were stable ; 
 You wept when dear old Rover died, 
 
 You wept — and dress'd your dolls in sable. 
 
 As year succeeds to year, the more 
 Imperfect life's fruition seems, 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 
 
 Our dreams, as baseless as of yore, 
 Are not the same enchanting dreams. 
 
 The girls I love now vote me slow — 
 
 How dull the boys who once seem'd witty 
 
 Perhaps I'm getting old — I know 
 I'm still romantic — more's the pity ! 
 
 Ah, vain regret ! to few, perchance, 
 
 Unknown, and profitless to all; 
 The wisely-gay, as years advance. 
 
 Are gay ly- wise. Whate'er befall. 
 We'll laugh at folly, whether seen 
 
 Beneath a chimney or a steeple ; 
 At yours, at mine — our own, I mean, 
 
 As well as that of other people. 
 
 They cannot be complete in aught 
 Who are not humorously prone, — 
 
 A man without a merry thought 
 Can hardly have a funny bone. 
 
REPLY TO A LETTER. 
 
 To say I hate your dismal men 
 
 Might be esteemed a strong assertion ; 
 
 If I've bhie devils now and then, 
 I make them dance for my diversion. 
 
 And here's your Jetter debonair ! 
 
 "J/y friend^ my dear old fj'iend of yore^* 
 And is this curl your daughter's hair? 
 
 I've seen the Titian tint before. 
 Are we the pair that used to pass ^ 
 
 Long days beneath the chestnut shady? 
 You then were such a pretty lass ! 
 
 I'm told you're now as fair a lady. 
 
 I've laugh'd to hide the tear I shed, 
 As when the Jester's bosom swells, 
 
 And mournfully he shakes his head, 
 We hear the jingle of his bells. 
 
MV MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 
 
 A jesting vein your poet vex'd, 
 
 And this poor rhyme, the Fates determine, 
 Without a parson or a text, 
 
 Has proved a rather prosy sermon. 
 
 MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 
 
 '^ I ^HEY nearly strike me dumb, 
 
 And I tremble when they come 
 Pit-a-pat : 
 
 This palpitation means 
 
 That these Boots are Geraldine's-— 
 Think of that! 
 
 Oh where did hunter win 
 So delectable a skin 
 
 For her feet ? 
 You lucky little kid, 
 You perish' d, so you did, 
 
 For my sweet ! 
 
MV MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 
 
 The faery stitching gleams 
 
 On the sides, and in the seams, 
 
 And it shows 
 That the Pixies were the wags 
 Who tipt these funny tags, 
 
 And these toes. 
 
 The simpletons who squeeze 
 Their extremities to please 
 
 Mandarins, 
 Would positively flinch 
 From venturing to pinch 
 
 Geraldine's. 
 
 What soles to charm an elf I 
 Had Crusoe, sick of self, 
 
 Chanced to view 
 One printed near the tide, 
 Oh how hard he would have tried 
 
 For the two ! 
 
 136 
 
MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS. 
 
 For Gerry's debonair, 
 And innocent, and fair 
 
 As a rose : 
 She's an angel in a frock, 
 With a fascinating cock 
 
 To her nose. 
 
 Cinderella's lefts a7id rights 
 To Geraldine's were frights : 
 
 And, I trow. 
 The damsel, deftly shod, 
 Has dutifully trod 
 
 Until now. 
 
 Come, Gerry, since it suits 
 
 Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 
 
 These to don, 
 
 Set this dainty hand awhile 
 
 On my shoulder, dear, and I'll 
 
 .Put them on. 
 137 
 
MY NEIGHBOR ROSE. 
 
 ^ I ^ HO UGH slender walls our hearths divide 
 
 No word has pass'd from either side, 
 How gayly all your days must glide 
 
 Unvex'd by labor ! 
 I've seen you weep, and could have wept ; 
 I've heard you sing, and may have slept ; 
 Sometimes I hear your chimney swept, 
 
 My charming neighbor ! 
 
 Your pets are mine. Pray what may ail 
 The pup, once eloquent of tail ? 
 I wonder why your nightingale 
 
 Is mute at sunset? 
 Your puss, demure and pensive, seems 
 Too fat to mouse. She much esteems 
 Yon sunny wall, and sleeps and dreams 
 
 Of mice she once ate. 
 
MV NEIGHBOR ROSE. 
 
 Our tastes agree. I dote upon 
 
 Frail jars, turquoise and celadon, 
 
 The "Wedding March" of Mendelssohn, 
 
 And Penseroso. 
 When sorely tempted to purloin 
 Your piet(i of Marc Antoine, 
 Fair Virtue doth fair play enjoin, 
 
 Fair Virtuoso ! 
 
 At times an Ariel, cruel-kind, 
 
 Will kiss my lips, and stir your blind, 
 
 And whisper low, "She hides behind; 
 
 Thou art not lonely." 
 The tricksy sprite did erst assist 
 At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst : — 
 Sweet Capulet ! thou wert not kiss'd 
 
 By light winds only. 
 
 I miss the simple days of yore, 
 
 When two long braids of hair you wore, 
 
 1^9 
 
MY NEIGHBOR ROSE, 
 
 And chat botte was wonder'd o'er, 
 
 In corner cosy. 
 But gaze not back for tales like those 
 It's all in order, I suppose, 
 The Bud is now a blooming Rose, — 
 
 A rosy posy ! 
 
 Indeed, farewell to by-gone years ; 
 How wonderful the change appears, 
 For curates now and cavaliers 
 
 In turn perplex you : 
 The last are birds of feather gay, 
 Who swear the first are birds of prey ; 
 I'd scare them all had I my way, 
 
 But that might vex you. 
 
 At tiuies I've envied, it is true, 
 That hero blithe, of twenty-two. 
 Who sent bouquets and billets doux, 
 And wore a sabre. 
 
MV NEIGHBOR ROSE, 
 
 The rogue ! how close his arm he wound 
 About her waist, who never frown'd. 
 He loves you Child. Now, is he bound 
 To love viy neighbor? 
 
 The bells are ringing. As is meet, 
 White favors fascinate the street, 
 Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet 
 
 *Twixt tears and laughter : 
 They crowd the door to see her go, 
 The bliss of one brings many woe ; 
 Oh kiss the bride, and I will throw 
 
 The old shoe after. 
 
 What change in one short afternoon, — 
 My Charming Neighbor gone, — so soon ! 
 Is yon pale orb her honey-moon 
 . Slow rising hither ? 
 
A NICE CORRESPONDENT t 
 
 O lady, wan and marvellous, 
 How often have we communed thus ; 
 Sweet memory shall dwell with us, — 
 And joy go with her ! 
 
 A NICE CORRESPONDENT! 
 
 '"T^HE glow and the glory are plighted 
 To darkness, for evening is come, 
 The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted, 
 
 The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. 
 I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy 
 
 Is summon'd to dinner to Kew : 
 I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy— 
 I'm thinking of you. 
 
 [ wish you were here. Were I duller 
 
 Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear ; 
 
 [ am drest in your favorite color — 
 
 Dear Fred, how I wish you were here ! 
 142 
 
A NICE COKI^ESPONDENT! 
 
 r am wearing my lazuli necklace, 
 
 The necklace you fasten'd askew ! 
 Was there ever so rude or so reckless 
 A darling as you ? 
 
 I want you to come and pass sentence 
 On two or three books with a plot ; 
 
 Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? 
 I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, 
 
 The story of Edgar and Lucy, 
 
 How thrilling, romantic, and true ; 
 
 The Master (his bride was a goosey !) 
 , Reminds me of you. 
 
 To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning 
 The beacon ; its magic still lures, 
 
 For up there you discoursed about Browning, 
 That stupid old Browning of yours. 
 
A NICE CORRESPONDENT I 
 
 His vogue and his verve are alarming, 
 
 I'm anxious to give him his due ; 
 But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming 
 A poet as you. 
 
 I heard how you shot at the Beeches, 
 I saw how you rode Chanticleer, 
 
 I have read the report of your speeches, 
 And echo'd the echoing cheer. 
 
 There's a whisper of hearts you are 'breaking, 
 I envy their owners, I do ! 
 
 Small marvel that Fortune is making 
 Her idol of you. 
 
 Alas for the world, and its dearly 
 
 Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss ! 
 Sometimes I half-wish I were merely 
 
 A plain or a penniless miss ; 
 
 ', 144 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 But, perhaps, one is best with a measure 
 Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too. 
 
 That I'm pretty, because it is a pleasure, 
 My dearest, to you. 
 
 Your whim is for frolic and fashion. 
 
 Your taste is for letters and art. 
 This rhyme is the commonplace jmssion 
 
 That glows in a fond woman's heart. 
 Lay it by in a dainty deposit 
 
 For relics, we all have a few ! 
 Love, some day they'll print it, because it 
 
 Was written to you. 
 
 THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 M 
 
 Y little friend, so small and neat, 
 Whom years ago I used to meet 
 In Pall Mall daily, 
 
 145 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL, 
 
 How cheerily yoa tript away 
 To work, it might have been to play, 
 You tript so gayly. 
 
 And Time trips too. This moral means 
 You then were midway in the teens 
 
 That I was crowning ; 
 We never spoke, but when I smiled 
 At morn or eve, I know, dear child, 
 
 You were not frowning. 
 
 Each morning when we met, I think 
 One sentiment us both did hnk, 
 
 Nor joy nor sorrow ; 
 And then at eve, experience-taught, 
 Our hearts were lighter for the thought,— 
 We meet to-morrow I 
 
 And you were poor ! so poor ! and why ? 
 
 How kind to come, it was for my 
 
 Especial grace meant ! 
 146 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 Had you a chamber near the stars, 
 A bird, some treasured plants in jars, 
 About your casement ? 
 
 I often wander up and down. 
 
 When morning bathes the silent town 
 
 In golden glory : 
 Perhaps, unwittingly, I've !^eard 
 Your thrilling-toned canary-bird 
 
 From that third story, 
 
 I've seen some change since last we met- 
 A patient little seamstress yet. 
 
 On small means striving, 
 Are you (if Love such luck allows) 
 Some lucky fellow's little spouse ? 
 
 Is baby thriving? 
 
 My heart grows chill — can soul like thine 
 Have tired of this dear world of mine. 
 
THE PILGRIMS OF PALL MALL. 
 
 And snapt Life's fetter? 
 To find a world wliose promised bliss 
 Is better than the best of this, — • 
 
 And is it better ? 
 
 Sometimes to Pall Mall I repair, 
 And see the damsels passing there ;— 
 
 But if I try to 
 Obtain one glance, they look discreet, 
 As though they'd some one else to meet ;- 
 
 As have not / too ? 
 
 Yet still I often think upon 
 
 Our many meetings come and gone ! 
 
 July — December ! 
 Now let us make a tryst, and when, 
 Dear little soul, we meet again, — 
 The mansion is preparing — then 
 
 Thy Friend remember ! 
 
 14S 
 
THE OLD CRADLE. 
 
 A ND this was your Cradle ? Why surely, nij 
 
 Jenny, 
 Such slender dimensions go clearly to show 
 You were an exceedingly small picaninny 
 
 Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. 
 
 Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled chan- 
 nel ; 
 I see you as then in your impotent strife, 
 A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel. 
 Perplex' d with that newly-found fardel cali'd 
 Life. 
 
 To hint at an infantine frailty's a scandal ; 
 
 Let by-gones be by-gones, and somebody knows 
 It was bliss such a Baby to dance and to dan- 
 dle. 
 
 Your cheeks were so velvet, so rosy your toes. 
 
THE OLD CRADLE. 
 
 Ay, here is your cradle , and Hope, at times 
 lonely, 
 
 With Love now is watching beside it, I know. 
 They guard the small nest you inherited only 
 
 Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago. ■ 
 
 It is Hope gilds the future. Love welcomes it 
 smiling ; 
 Thus wags the old world, therefore stay not 
 to ask, 
 " My future bids fair, is my future beguiling ? " 
 If mask'd, still it pleases — then raise not the 
 mask. 
 
 Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing ? 
 
 He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will 
 adjust ; 
 
 For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin — ■ 
 
 From a spoonful of pap to a mouthud of dust. 
 
THE ANGORA CAT, 
 
 Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny ! 
 
 I see you, except for those infantine woes, 
 Little changed since you were but a small pica- 
 ninny 
 
 — Your cheeks were so velvet, so rosy your toes ! 
 
 Ay, here is your cradle ! much, much to my liking, 
 
 Though nineteen or twenty long winters have 
 
 sped ; 
 
 But hark ! as I'm talking there's six o'clock 
 
 striking, — 
 
 It is time Jenny's baby should be in its bed. 
 
 THE ANGORA CAT. 
 
 /'"^ OOD pastry is vended 
 
 In Cite Fadette ; 
 Madame Pons can make splendid 
 Brioche and galette I 
 
THE ANGORA CAT. 
 
 Monsieur Pons is so fat that 
 
 He's laid on the shelf; 
 Madame Pons had a cat that 
 
 Was fat as herself. 
 
 Long hair, soft as satin, 
 
 A musical purr — 
 'Gainst the window she'd flatten 
 
 Her delicate fur. 
 
 Once I drove Lou to see what 
 
 Our neighbors were at, 
 When, in rapture, cried she, " What 
 
 An exquisite cat ! 
 
 *'What whiskers! She's purring 
 
 All over. Regale 
 Our eyes. Puss, by stirring 
 
 Your feathery tail ! 
 
THE ANGORA CAT. 
 
 " Monsieur Pons, will 3'ou sell her ? ' 
 
 " J/<2 femme est sortie, 
 Your offer I'll tell her, 
 
 But — will she?" says he. 
 
 Yet Pons was persuaded 
 
 To part with the prize : 
 (Our bargain was aided. 
 
 My Lozi, by your eyes !) 
 
 From legitime save him, — 
 
 My fate I prefer ! 
 For I warrant she gave him 
 
 Un mauvais quart d'heuref 
 
 I'm giving a pleasant 
 
 Grimalkin to Lou, — 
 
 Ah, Puss, what a present 
 
 Pm giving to you ! 
 153 
 
ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE. 
 
 CJHE pass'd up the aisle on the arm of hei 
 
 sire, 
 A delicate lady in bridal attire. 
 
 Fair emblem of virgin simplicity ; 
 Half London was there, and, my word, there 
 
 were few 
 That stood by the altar, or hid in a pcv/, 
 But envied Lord Nigel's felicity. 
 
 O beautiful Bride ! So meek in thy splendor, 
 So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender, 
 
 Departing you leave us the town dim ! 
 May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought, 
 And may Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, 
 
 Prove worthy thy worship, — confound him ! 
 
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 
 
 *" I ^HE characters of great and small 
 
 Come ready made (we can't bespeak one) 
 Their sides are many, too, — and all 
 
 (Except ourselves) have got a weak one. 
 Some sanguine people love for life, 
 
 Some love their hobby till it flings them, — ■ 
 How many love a pretty wife 
 
 For love of the eclat she brings them ! 
 
 In order to relieve my mind 
 
 I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, 
 
 And much because I'm disinclined 
 To venture on a painful matter : 
 
 I once was bashful ; I'll allow 
 
 I've blushed for words untimely spoken, 
 
 I still am rather shy, and now .... 
 
 And now the ice is fairly broken. 
 
 155 
 
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 
 
 We all have secrets : you have one 
 
 Which mayn't be quite your charming spouse's \ 
 We all lock up a skeleton 
 
 In some grim chamber of our houses ; 
 Familiars who exhaust their days 
 
 And nights in plaguing fops and fogies, 
 And who, excepting spiteful ways, 
 
 Are blameless, unassuming bogies. 
 
 We hug the phantom we detest, 
 
 We rarely let it cross our portals : 
 It is a most exacting guest, — 
 
 Now are we not afflicted mortals? 
 Your neighbor Gay, that jovial wight, 
 
 As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, 
 Poor Gay steals twenty times a night, 
 
 On shaking knees, to see his spectre. 
 
 Old Dives fears a pauper fate. 
 
 And hoarding is his gloomy passion ; 
 
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD. 
 
 And some poor souls anticipate 
 
 A waistcoat straighter than the fashion. 
 
 She, childless, pines, — that lonely wife, 
 And hidden tears are bitter shedding ; 
 
 And he may tremble all his life. 
 
 And die, — but not of that he's dreading. 
 
 Ah me, the AVorld ! How fast it spins ! 
 
 The beldams dance, the caldron baubles ; 
 They shriek, and stir it for our sins, 
 
 And we m-ist drain it for our troubles. 
 We toil, we groan — the cry for love 
 
 Mounts upward from the seething city, 
 And yet I know we have above 
 
 A Father, infinite in pity. 
 
 When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, 
 When sunbeams play, when shadows darken, 
 
 One inmate of our dwelling keeps 
 A ghastly carnival — but hearken 1 
 
EPISODE m THE STORY OF A MUFF. 
 
 How dry the rattle of the bones ! — 
 
 The sound was not to make you start meant 
 
 Stand by ! Your humble servant owns 
 The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. 
 
 EPISODE IN THE STORY OF A MUFF. 
 
 OHE'S jealous! Am I sorry? No! 
 I like to see ray Mabel so, 
 Carina inia ! 
 Poor Puss ! That now and then she draws 
 Conclusions, not without a cause, 
 Is my idea. 
 
 We love ; and I'm prepared to prove 
 
 That jealousy is kin to love 
 
 In constant women. 
 
 My jealous Pussy cut up rough 
 
 The day before I bought her muff 
 
 J With sable trimming. 
 
 158 
 
GERALDINE. 
 
 These tearful darlings think to quell us 
 By being so divinely jealous; 
 
 But I know better. 
 Hillo! Who's that? A damsel! Come, 
 I'll follow: no, I can't, for some 
 
 One else has met her. 
 
 What fun! He looks "a lad of grace." 
 She holds her muff to hide her face ; 
 
 They kiss, — the sly Puss ! 
 Hillo ! Her muff, — its trimmed with sable ! 
 It's like the muff I gave to Mabel ! 
 
 Goodl-o-r-d! SFIE'S MY PUSS! 
 
 A 
 
 GERALDINE. 
 
 SIMPLE child has claims 
 On your sentiment — her name's 
 Geraldine. 
 
GERALDIiVE. 
 
 Be tender, but beware, — 
 She's frolicsome as fair, — 
 And fifteen. 
 
 She has gifts to grace allied, 
 Each gift she has applied, 
 
 And im[)roved : 
 She has bliss that lives and lean; 
 On loving, and that means — 
 
 She is loved. 
 
 Her grace is grace refined 
 By sweet harmony of mind : 
 
 And the Art, 
 And the blessed Nature, too, 
 Of a tender and a true 
 
 Little heart. 
 
 And yet I must not vault 
 Over any foolish fault 
 That she owns : 
 
 i6o 
 
GERALDINE. 
 
 Or others might rebeU 
 And enviously suell 
 
 In their zones. 
 
 She is tricksy as the fays, 
 Or her pussy when it plays 
 
 With a string : 
 She's a goose about her cat, 
 Her ribbons, and all that 
 
 Sort of thing. 
 
 These foibles are a blot, 
 Still she never can do what 
 
 Is not nice, 
 Such as quarrel, and give slaps — 
 As I've known her get, perhaps, 
 
 Once or twice 
 
 The spells that move her soul 
 Are subtle- -sad or droll : 
 She can show 
 
GERALDINE. 
 
 That virtuoso whim 
 Which consecrates our dim 
 Long-ago. 
 
 A love that is not sham 
 
 For Stothard, Blake, and Lamb \ 
 
 And I've known 
 CordeHa's wet eyes 
 
 Cause angel-tears to rise 
 
 In her own. 
 
 Her gentle spirit yearns 
 
 When she reads of Robin Burns — 
 
 Luckless Bard, 
 Had she blossom' d in thy time, 
 Oh how rare had been the rhyme 
 
 — And reward! 
 
 Thrice happy then is he 
 Who, planting such a tree, 
 Sees it bloom 
 
MRS. SMITH. 
 
 To shelter him — indeed 
 We have sorrow as we speed 
 To our doom ! 
 
 I am happy having grown 
 Such a Sapling of my own ; 
 
 And I crave 
 No garland for my brows, 
 But peace beneath its boughs 
 
 To the grave. 
 
 MRS. SMITH. 
 
 T AST year I trod these fields with Di, 
 And that's the simple reason why 
 They now seem arid : 
 Then Di was fair and single ; how 
 Unfair it seems on me, for now 
 
 Di's fair — and married ! 
 
 163 
 
MRS. SMITH. 
 
 In bliss we roved : I scorn'd the song 
 
 Which says that though young T.ove is strong," 
 
 The Fates are stronger : 
 Breezes then blew a boon to men, 
 Then buttercups were bright, and then 
 
 This grass was longer. 
 
 That day I saw, and much esteem' d 
 Di's ankle, which the clover seemed 
 
 Inclined to smother : 
 It twitch'd, and soon untied (for fun) 
 The ribbon of her shoes, first one 
 
 And then the other. 
 
 I'm told that virgins augur some 
 Misfortune if their shoe-strings come 
 
 To grief on Friday : 
 And so did Di, and then her pride 
 Decreed that shoes-strings so untied 
 
 t Are "■ so untidy ! " 
 
 164 
 
MRS. SMITH. 
 
 Of course I knelt, with fingers deft 
 I tied the right, and tied the left : 
 
 Says Di, " The stubble 
 Is very stupid — as I live 
 I'm shocked — I'm quite ashamed to give 
 
 You so much trouble." 
 
 For answer I was fain to sink 
 
 To what we all would say and think 
 
 Were Beauty present : 
 "Don't mention such a simple act, — ■ 
 A trouble ? not the least. In fact, 
 
 It's rather pleasant." 
 
 I trust that Love will never tease 
 
 Poor little Di, or prove that he's 
 
 A graceless rover. 
 
 She's happy now as Mrs. Smith — 
 
 And less polite when walking with 
 
 Her chosen lover ! 
 165 
 
CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 Heigh-ho ! Although no moral clings 
 To Di's bine eyes, and sandal- strings, 
 
 We've had our quarrels ! — 
 I think that Smith is thought an ass, 
 I know that when they walk in grass 
 
 She wears balmorals. 
 
 CIRCUMSTANCE. 
 
 THE ORANGE. 
 
 TT ripen'd by the river banks, 
 
 Where, mask and moonlight aiding, 
 Don Juans play their pretty pranks, 
 Dark Donnas serenading. 
 
 By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, 
 Beneath the golden day there ;— 
 
 By swain 'twas then in London suck'd, 
 Who flung the peel away there. 
 
 J 66 
 
GERTY'S GLOVE. 
 
 He could not know in Pimlico, 
 
 As little she in Seville, 
 That / should reel upon that peel, 
 
 And wish them at the devil ! 
 
 GERTY'S GLOVE. 
 
 "Elle avait au bout de ses manches 
 Une paire de mains si blanches ! " 
 
 OLIPS of a kid-skin deftly sewn, 
 
 A scent as through her garden blown, 
 The tender hue that clothes her dove, 
 All these, and this is Gerty's glove. 
 
 A glove but lately doift, for look- 
 It keeps the happy shape it took 
 Warm from her touch ! What gave the glow ?- 
 
 And Where's the mould that shaped it so ? 
 167 
 
A TERRIBLE INFANT, 
 
 It clasp'd the hand, so pure, so sleek, 
 Where Gerty rests a pensive cheek, 
 The hand that when the light wind stirs, 
 Reproves those laughing locks of hers. 
 
 You fingers four, you little thumb ! 
 Were I but you in days to come 
 I'd clasp, and kiss, and keep her — go ! 
 And tell her that I told you so. 
 
 A TERRIBLE INFANT. 
 
 T RECOLLECT a nurse called Ann, 
 
 Who carried me about the grass, 
 And one fine day a fine young man 
 
 Came up and kissed the pretty lass. 
 She did not make the least objection ! 
 Thinks I, ''Aha! 
 When I can talk I'll tell mammal 
 — And that's my earliest recollection. 
 
 i68 
 
CALVERLEY. 
 
FLIGHT. 
 
 /^ MEMORY ! that which I gave thee 
 
 To guard in tliy garner yestreen — 
 Little deeming thou e'er could' st behave thee 
 
 Thus basely — hath gone from thee clean ! 
 Gone, fled, as ere autumn is ended 
 
 The yellow leaves flee from the oak — 
 I have lost it forever, my splendid 
 Original joke. 
 
 What was it? T know I was brushing 
 My hair when the notion occurred : 
 
 I know that I felt myself blushing 
 
 As I thought " How supreme!)- absurd ! 
 
FLIGHT. 
 
 "How they'll hammer on floor and on table 
 
 " As its drollery dawns on them — how 
 " They will quote it " — I wish I were able 
 To quote it just now. 
 
 I had thought to lead up conversation 
 To the subject — it's easily done — 
 
 Then let off, as an airy creation 
 Of the moment, that masterly pun. 
 
 Let it off, with a flash like a rocket's , 
 In the midst of a dazzled conclave, 
 
 While 1 sat, with my hands in my pockets, 
 The only one grave. 
 
 I had fancied young Titterton's chuckles, 
 And old Bottleby's hearty guffaws 
 
 As he drove at my ribs with his knuckles. 
 His mode of expressing applause : 
 
FLIGHT. 
 
 While Jean Bottleby — queenly Miss Janet- 
 Drew her handkerchief hastily out, 
 In fits at my slyness — what can it 
 
 Have all been about? 
 
 I know 'twas the happiest, quaintest 
 Combination of pathos and fun : 
 
 But I've got no idea — the faintest — • 
 Of what was the actual pun. 
 
 I think it was someh-ow connected 
 With something I'd recently read — 
 
 Or heard — or perhaps recollected 
 
 On going to bed. 
 
 What had I been reading? The Staridard: 
 "Double Bigamy"; "Speech of the Mayor.' 
 
 And later — eh ? yes ! I meandered 
 
 Through some chapters of Vanity Fair. 
 
FLIGHT, 
 
 How it fuses the grave with the festive ! 
 
 Yet e'en there, there is nothing so fine- 
 So playfully, subtly suggestive— 
 
 As that joke of mine. 
 
 Did it hinge upon "parting asunder"? 
 
 No, I don't part my hair with my brush. 
 Was the point of it " hair " ? Now I wonder \ 
 
 Stop a bit — I shall think of it — hush ! 
 There's hare^ a wild aninial — Stuff! 
 
 It was something a deal more recondite : 
 Of that I am certain enough ; 
 
 ■ And of nothing beyond it. 
 
 Hair — locks ! There are probably many 
 Good things to be said about those 
 
 Give me time — that's the best guess of any— - 
 "Lock" has several meanings, one knows 
 
FLIGHT. 
 
 Iron locks — iron-grey locks — a "deadlock" — 
 
 That would set up an e very-day wit : 
 Then of course there's the obvious "wedlock"; 
 But that wasn't it. 
 
 No ! mine was a joke for the ages ; 
 
 Full of intricate meaning and pith ; 
 A feast for your scholars and sages — 
 
 How it would have rejoiced Sidney Smith. 
 'Tis such thoughts that ennoble a mortal; 
 
 And, singling him out from the herd, 
 Fling wide immortality's portal — 
 
 But what was the word ? 
 
 Ah me ! 'tis a bootless endeavor. 
 
 As the flight of a bird of the air 
 Is the flight of a joke — you will never 
 
 See the same one again, you may swear. 
 
PEACE. 
 
 « 
 
 ' Tvvas my first-born, and O how I prized it ! 
 
 My darling, my treasure, my own ! 
 This brain and none other devised it — 
 And now it has flown. 
 
 PEACE. 
 
 A STUDY. 
 
 T T E stood, a worn-out City clerk — 
 
 V/ho'd toiled, and seen no holiday, 
 For forty years from dawn to dark — 
 Alone beside Caermarthen Bay. 
 
 He felt the salt spray on his lips; 
 
 Heard children's voices on the sands ; 
 
 Up the sun's path he saw the ships 
 
 Sail on and on to other lands ; 
 176 
 
ODE TO TOBACCO. 
 
 And laughed aloud. Each sight and sound 
 To him was joy too deep for tears ; 
 
 He sat him on the beach, and bound 
 A blue bandana round his ears ; 
 
 And thought how, posted near his door, 
 His own green door on Camden Hill, 
 
 Two bands at least, most likely more. 
 Were mingling at their own sweet will 
 
 Verdi with Vance. And at the thought 
 He laughed again, and softly drew 
 
 That " Morning Herald" that he'd brought 
 Forth from his breast, and read it through 
 
 ODE TO TOBACCO. 
 
 '' I ^HOU who, when fears attack, 
 Bidst them avaunt, and Black 
 
 Care, at the horseman's back 
 Perching, unseatest ; 
 
ODE TO TOBACCO. 
 
 Sweet when the morn is gray; 
 Sweet, when they've cleared away 
 Lunch ; and at close of day 
 Possibly sweetest : 
 
 I have a liking old 
 
 For thee, though manifold 
 
 Stories, I know, are told, 
 
 Not to thy credit ; 
 How one (or two at most) 
 Drops make a cat a ghost-~« 
 Useless, except to roast — 
 
 Doctors have said it : 
 
 How they who use fusees 
 All grow by slow degrees 
 Brainless as chimpanzees, 
 
 Meagre as lizards ; 
 
 178 
 
ODE TO TOBACCO, 
 
 Go mad, and beat their wives ; 
 Plunge (after shocking lives) 
 Razors and carving knives 
 Into their gizzards. 
 
 Confound such knavish tricks! 
 Yet know I five or six 
 Smokers who freely mix 
 
 Still with their neighbors ; 
 Jones — (who, I'm glad to say, 
 Asked leave of Mrs. J.) — • 
 Daily absorbs a clay 
 
 After his labors. 
 
 Cats may have had their goose 
 Cooked by tobacco-juice ; 
 Still why deny its use 
 Thoughtfully taken? 
 
LINES SUGGESTED BY i\th FEBRUARY. 
 
 We're not as tabbies are : 
 Smith, take a fresh cigar ! 
 Jones, the tobacco-jar ! 
 
 Here's to thee. Bacon ! 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY THE FOUR- 
 TEENTH OF FEBRUARY. 
 
 I "^ RE the morn the East has crimsoned, 
 
 When the stars are twinkling there, 
 (As they did in Watts' Hymns, and 
 
 Made him wonder what they were :) 
 When the forest nymphs are beading 
 
 Fern and flower with silvery dew — 
 My infallible proceeding 
 
 Is to wake, and think of you. 
 
 When the hunter's ringing bugle 
 
 Sounds farewell to field and copse, 
 
 1 80 
 
LINES SUGGESTED BY i^th FEBRUARY. 
 
 And I sit before my frugal 
 
 Meal of gravy-soup and chops : 
 
 When (as Gray remarks) "the moping 
 Owl doth to the moon complain," 
 
 And the hour suggests eloping — 
 Fly my thoughts to you again. 
 
 May my dreams be granted never ? 
 
 Must I aye endure affliction 
 Rarely realized, if ever, 
 
 In our wildest works of fiction? 
 Madly Romeo loved his Juliet ; 
 
 Copperfield began to pine 
 When he hadn't been to school yet — 
 
 But their loves were cold to mine. 
 
 Give me hope, the least, the dimmest, 
 Ere I drain the poisoned cup : 
 
 Tell me I may tell the chymist 
 Not to make that arsenic up 1 
 
DISASTER. 
 
 Else the heart must cease to throb in 
 This my breast ; and when, in tones 
 
 Hushed, men ask, '-Who killed Cock Robin?" 
 They'll be told, '' Miss Clara J s." 
 
 DISASTER. 
 
 "T^WAS ever thus from childhood's hour 
 My fondest hopes would not decay : 
 I never loved a tree or ilower 
 
 Which was the first to fade away ! 
 The garden where I used to delve 
 
 Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty 
 The pear-tree that I cliuibed at twelve 
 
 I see still blossoming, at twenty. 
 
 I never nursed a dear gazelle. 
 
 But I was given a parroquet — 
 How I did nurse him if unwell ! 
 
 He's imbecile, but lingers yet, 
 
 182 
 
DISASTEJi, 
 
 He's green, with an enchanting tuft ; 
 
 He melts me with his small black eye 
 He'd look inimitable stuffed, 
 
 And knows it — but he will not die ! 
 
 I had a kitten — I was rich 
 
 In pels — but all too soon my kitten 
 Became a full-sized cat, by which 
 
 I've more than once been scratched and bitten 
 And when for sleep her limbs she curled 
 
 One day beside her untouched plateful, 
 And glided calmly from the world, 
 
 I freely own that I was grateful. 
 
 And then I bought a dog — a queen ! 
 
 Ah Tiny, dear departing pug I 
 She lives, but she is past sixteen 
 
 And scarce can crawl across the rug. 
 
. DISASTER. 
 
 I loved her beautiful and kind ; 
 
 Delighted in her pert Bow-wow : 
 But now she snaps if you don't mind; 
 
 'Twere lunacy to love her now. 
 
 I used to think, should e'er mishap 
 
 Betide my crumpled-visaged Ti, 
 
 In shape of prowHng thief, or trap, 
 
 Or coarse bull-terrier — I should die. 
 
 But ah ! disasters have their use ; 
 
 And life might e'en be too sunshiny: 
 
 Nor would I make myself a goose, 
 
 If some big dog should swallow Tiny. 
 184 
 
COMPANIONS. 
 
 A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER. 
 
 I* KNOW not of what we pondered 
 Or made pretty pretence to talk, 
 As, her hand within mine, we wandered 
 Tow'rd the pool by the lime-tree walk, 
 While the dew fell in showers from the passion 
 flowers 
 And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. 
 
 I cannot recall her figure : 
 
 Was it regal as Juno's own ? 
 Or only a trifle bigger 
 
 Than the elves who surround the throne 
 Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween, 
 
 By mortals in dreams alone ? 
 
 What her eyes were like I know not : 
 
 Perhaps they were blurred with tears; 
 
 185 
 
COMPANIONS. 
 
 And perhaps in yon skies there glow not 
 (On the contrary) clearer spheres. 
 
 No ! as to her eyes I am just as wise 
 As you or the cat, my dears. 
 
 Her teeth, I presume, were " pearly " ; 
 
 But which was she, brunette or blonde ? 
 Her hair, was it quaintly curly. 
 
 Or as straight as a beadle's wand ? 
 That I failed to remark ; — it was rather dark 
 
 And shadowy round the pond. 
 
 Then the hand that reposed so snugly 
 In mine — was it plump or spare? 
 
 Was the countenance fair or ugly ? 
 Nay, children, you have me there ! 
 
 My eyes were p'haps blurred ; and besides I'd 
 heard 
 
 , That it's horribly rude to stare. 
 
COMPANIONS. 
 
 And I — was I brusque and surly ? 
 
 Or oppressively bland and fond ? 
 Was I partial to rising early ? 
 
 Or why did we twain abscond, 
 When nobody knew, from the public view 
 
 To prowl by a misty pond ? 
 
 What passed, what was felt or spoken — 
 
 Whether anything passed at all — 
 And whether the heart was broken 
 
 That beat under that shelt'ring shawl — 
 (If shawl she had on, which I doubt) — -has gone, 
 Yes, gone from me past recall. 
 
 Was I haply the lady's suitor? 
 
 Or her uncle? I can't make out — 
 Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. 
 
 For mvself, I'm in hopeless doubt 
 As to why we were there, who on earth we were 
 
 And what this is all about. 
 
 187 
 
ISABEL. 
 
 TV T OW o'er the landscape crowd the deepen- 
 ing shades, 
 And the shut Hly cradles not the bee : 
 
 The red deer couches in the forest glades, 
 And faint the echoes of the slumberous sea : 
 And ere I rest, one prayer I'll breathe for thee, 
 
 The sweet Egeria of my lonely dreams : 
 Lady, forgive, that ever upon me 
 Thoughts of thee linger, as the soft starbeams 
 
 Linger on Merlin's rock, or dark Sabrina's streams. 
 
 On gray Pilatus once we loved to stray, 
 
 And watch far off the glimmering roselight break 
 
 O'er the dim mountain-peaks, ere yet one ray 
 Pierced the deep bosom of the mist-clad lake. 
 Oh! who felt not new life within him wake, 
 
ISABEL. 
 
 And his pulse quicken, and his spirit burn — 
 
 (Save one we wot of, whom the cold did make 
 Feel "shooting pains in every joint in turn,") 
 When first we saw the stm gild thy green shores 
 Lucerne ? 
 
 And years have past, and I have gazed once more 
 On blue lakes glistening amid mountains blue; 
 
 And all seemed sadder, lovelier than before — 
 For all awakened memories of you. 
 Oh ! had I had you by my side, in lieu 
 
 Of that red matron, whom the flies would worry, 
 (Flies in those parts unfortunately do,) 
 
 Who walked so slowly, talked in such a hurry, 
 
 And with such wild contempt for stops and Lindley 
 Murray ! 
 
 O Isabel, the brightest, heavenliest theme 
 
 That ere drew dreamer on to poesy, 
 
 189 
 
'* FOREVER r 
 
 Since "Peggy's locks" made Burns neglect his 
 team, 
 And Stella's smile lured Johnson from his tea — 
 I may not tell thee what thou art to me ! 
 But ever dwells the soft voice in my ear, 
 Whispering of what Time is, what Man might be, 
 Would he but " do the duty that lies near," 
 And cut clubs, cards, champagne, balls, billiard 
 rooms, and beer. 
 
 " FOREVER." 
 T7OREVER ! 'Tis a single word ! 
 
 Our rude forefathers deemed it two. 
 Can you imagine so absurd 
 A view ? 
 
 Forever ! What abysms of woe 
 
 The word reveals, what frensy, what 
 Despair! For ever (printed so) 
 Did not. 
 
'' FOREVERy 
 
 It looks, ah me ! how trite and tame ! 
 
 It fails to sadden or appal 
 Or solace — it is not the same 
 At all. 
 
 O thou to whom it first occurred 
 
 To solder the disjoined, and dower 
 Thy native language with a word 
 Of power: 
 
 We bless thee ! Whether far or near 
 Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair 
 Thy kingly brow, is neither here 
 Nor there. 
 
 But in men's hearts shall be thy throne, 
 While the great pulse of England beats • 
 Thou coiner of a word unknown 
 To Keats! 
 
A B, c. 
 
 And nevermore must printer do 
 
 As men did long ago ; but run 
 ♦'For" into "ever," bidding two 
 Be one. 
 
 Forever ! passion-fraught, it throws 
 
 O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour 
 It's sweet, it's strange ; and I suppose 
 It's grammar. 
 
 Forever ! 'Tis a single word ! 
 
 And yet our fathers deemed it two : 
 Nor am I confident they erred j 
 Are you ? 
 
 A, B, C. 
 
 A IS an Angel of blushing eighteen : 
 
 B is the Ball where the Angel was seen : 
 C is her Chaperon, who cheated at cards : 
 D is the Deuxtemps, with Frank of the Guards : 
 
A, B, C. 
 
 E is her Eye. killing slowly but surely : 
 
 F is the Fan, whence it peeped so demurely : 
 
 G is the Glove of superlative kid : 
 
 H is the Hand which it spitefully hid : 
 
 I is the Ice which the fair one demanded : 
 
 J is the Juvenile, that dainty who handed : 
 
 K is the Kerchief, a rare work of art : 
 
 Ij is the Lace which composed the chief part : 
 
 M is the old Maid who watch'd the chits dance ; 
 
 N is the Nose she turned up at each glance : 
 
 O is the Olga (just then in its prime) : 
 
 P is the Partner who wouldn't keep time: 
 
 Q 's a Quadrille, put instead of the Lancers; 
 
 R the Remonstrances made by the dancers : 
 
 S is the Supper, where all went in pairs : 
 
 T is the Twaddle they talked on the stairs: 
 
 U is the Uncle who "thought we'd be goin':" 
 
 V is the Voice which his niece replied 'No' in 
 
VV is the Waiter, who sat up till eight 
 
 K is his Exit, not rigidly straight : 
 
 Y is a Yawning ht caused by the Ball : 
 
 Z stands foi Zero, or nothing at all. 
 194 
 
DOBSON 
 
TU QUOQUE. 
 
 AN IDYL IN THE CONSERVATORY. 
 
 " — romprons-nous, 
 Ou ne romj>rons-nous pas?" 
 
 Le Depit Amoureux. 
 
 Nellie. 
 T F I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, 
 
 Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, 
 I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 Frank. 
 If I were you, when persons I affected, 
 
 Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, 
 I would, at least, pretend I recollected, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
TU QUOQUE. 
 
 Nellie. 
 
 If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, 
 Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, 
 
 I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, 
 If I were you I 
 
 Frank. 
 
 If I were you, who vow yon cannot suffer 
 Whiff of the best, — the mildest "honey-dew," 
 
 I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, 
 If I were you ! 
 
 Nellie. 
 
 If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, 
 Even to write the " Cynical Review ; " — 
 
 Frank. 
 
 No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, 
 If I were you ! 
 
TU QUOQUE. 
 
 Nellie. 
 
 Really ! You would ? Why, Frank, you're quite 
 delightful, — 
 
 Hot as Othello, and as black of hue : 
 Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful^ 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 Frank. 
 
 '* It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is 
 Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! 
 
 / shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis, 
 If I were you I 
 
 Nellie. 
 
 Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir I 
 
 Where shall it be? To .China — or Peru? 
 Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 199 
 
TU QUOQUE. 
 
 Frank. 
 No, — I remain. To stay and fight a duel 
 
 Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do— 
 Ah, you are strong, — I would not then be cruel, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 
 Nellie. 
 One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,— 
 
 Frank. 
 One does not like one's friends to miscon- 
 strue, — 
 
 Nellie. 
 If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ? — 
 
 FrxVNk. 
 I should admit that I was pique, too. 
 
 Nellie. 
 
 Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it, 
 
 If I were you ! 
 ' \\^2\iz—Exeunt.'\ 
 
AVICE. 
 
 On serait iente de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la 
 Bergeronnette:'' — ViCTC«4 Hugo. 
 
 I. 
 
 •^ I ^HOUGH the voice of modern schools 
 Has demurred, 
 
 By the dreamy Asian creed 
 
 'Tis averred, 
 
 That the souls of men, released 
 
 From their bodies when deceased, 
 
 Sometimes enter in a beast, — 
 Or a bird. 
 
 II. 
 
 I have watched you long, Avice, — 
 Watched you so, 
 
 I have found your secret out ; 
 
 And I know 
 
A VICE. 
 
 That the restless ribboned things, 
 Where your slope of shoulder springs, 
 Are but undeveloped wings 
 
 That will grow. 
 
 in. 
 
 When you enter in a room, 
 
 It is stirred 
 With the wayward, flashing flight 
 
 Of a bird; 
 And you speak — and bring with you 
 Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue. 
 And the wind-breath and the dew 
 At a word. 
 
 IV. 
 
 When you called to me my name, 
 Then again 
 
 When 1 heard your single cry 
 In the lane, 
 
A VICE. 
 
 All the sound was as the "sweet" 
 Which the birds to birds repeat 
 In their thank-song to the heat 
 After rain. 
 
 V. 
 
 When you sang the Schwalbenlied^ 
 'Twas absurd, — 
 
 But it seemed no human note- 
 That I heard ; 
 
 For your strain had all the trills, 
 
 All the little shakes and stills. 
 
 Of the over-song that rills 
 
 From a bird. 
 
 VI. 
 
 You have just their eager, quick 
 
 ^^ Airs de tete^^ 
 
 All their flush and fever-heat 
 
 When elate ; 
 203 
 
A VICE. 
 
 Every bird-like nod and beck, 
 And a bird's own curve of neck 
 When she gives a little peck 
 
 To her mate. 
 
 VII. 
 
 When you left me, only now, 
 
 In that furred, 
 Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, 
 I was spurred 
 Just to catch you, O my Sweet, 
 By the bodice trim and neat, — 
 Just to feel your heart a-beat. 
 Like a bird. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Yet, alas! Love's light you deign 
 But to wear 
 
 As the dew upon your plumes, 
 And you care 
 
I 
 
 THE LOVE-LETTER, 
 
 Not a whit for rest or hush ; 
 . But the leaves, the lyric gush, 
 And the wing-power, and the rush 
 Of the air. 
 
 IX. 
 
 So I dare not woo you. Sweet, 
 
 For a day, 
 Lest I lose you in a flash, 
 
 As I may ; 
 Did I tell you tender things, 
 You would shake your sudden wings ; — 
 You would start from him who sings, 
 
 And away. 
 
 THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 F this should fail, why then I scarcely know 
 What could succeed. Here's, brilliancy (and 
 
 banter), 
 
 205 
 
THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 Byron ad lib., a chapter of Rousseau ; — 
 
 If this should fail, then tempora nmtantitr ; 
 Style's out of date, and love, as a profession, 
 Acquires no aid from beauty of expression. 
 
 " The men who think as I, 1 fear, are few," 
 (Cynics would say ' twere well if they were 
 fewer) ; 
 
 "I am not what I seem," — (indeed, 'tis true; 
 Though, as a sentiment, it might be newer) ; 
 
 "Mine is a soul whose deeper feelings lie 
 
 More deep than words " — (as these exemplify). 
 
 " I will ncH: say when first your beauty's sun 
 Illumed my life," — (it needs imagination) ; 
 
 " For me to see you and to love were one," — 
 (This will account for some precipitation) ; 
 
 " Let it suffice that worship more devoted 
 
 Ne'er throbbed," et cc&tera. The rest is quoted 
 
 206 
 
THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 "If Love can look with all-prophetic eye," — 
 (Ah, if he could, how many would be single !), 
 
 " If truly S[)irit unto spirit cry," — 
 
 (The ears of some most terribly must tingle !) 
 
 " Then I have dreamed you will not turn your 
 face." 
 
 This next, I think, is more than commonplace. 
 
 "Why should we speak, if Love, interpreting, 
 Forestall the speech with favor found before ? 
 
 Why should we plead ? — it were an idle thing, 
 If Love himself be Love's ambassador ! " 
 
 Blot, as I live. Shall we erase it ? No ; — 
 
 ' Twill show we write cur rente calainV, 
 
 " My fate, — my fortune, I commit to you," — 
 
 (In point of fact, the latter' s not extensive) ; 
 
 "Without you I am poor indeed," — (strike 
 through, 
 
THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 ' Tis true but crude — 'twould make her appre- 
 hensive) ; 
 *' My hfe is yours — I lay it at your feet," 
 (Having no choice but Hymen or the Fleet). 
 
 " Give me the right to stand within the shrine, 
 
 Where never yet my faltering feet intruded ; 
 Give me the right to call you wholly mine," — 
 (That is. Consols and Three per Cents in- 
 cluded) ; 
 " To guard your rest from every care that cank- 
 ers, — 
 To keep your life," — (and balance at your bank- 
 
 " Compel me not to long for your reply ; 
 
 Suspense makes havoc with the mind" — (and 
 muscles) ; 
 ** Winged Hope takes flight," — (which means that 
 
 » I must fly, 
 
THE LOVE-LETTER. 
 
 Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels) ; 
 " I cannot wait ! My own, my queen — Priscilla ! 
 Write by return." And now for a Manila ! 
 
 "Miss Blank," at ''Blank." Jemima, let it go, 
 
 And I, meanwhile, will idle with " Sir Walter ; " 
 
 Stay, let me keep the first rough coi)y, though — 
 
 ' Twill serve again. There's but the name to 
 
 alter, 
 
 And Love, that needs, must knock at every 
 
 portal. 
 In forma pauperis. We are but mortal ! 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL. 
 
 " Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song."— Spenser. 
 
 Lawrence. Frank. Jack. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 T T ERE, where the beech-nuts drop among 
 the grasses, 
 Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. 
 Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; 
 Here let us sit. We landed here before. 
 
 Frank. 
 
 Jack's undecided. Say, fonnose piier^ 
 
 Bent in a dream above the "water wan," 
 
 Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer 
 There by the pollards, where you see the 
 
 ' swan ? 
 
 2IO 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL. 
 
 Jack. 
 
 Hist ! That's a pike. Look — nose against the river, 
 Gaunt as wolf, — the sly old privateer ! 
 
 Enter a gudgeon. Snap, — a gulp, a shiver ; — 
 Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. 
 
 Frank {in the grass). 
 Jove, what a day ! Black Care upon the crupper 
 
 Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; 
 Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, 
 
 Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun! 
 
 Lawrence. 
 Sing to us then. Damcetas in a choker, 
 Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. 
 
 Frank. 
 Sing you again. So musical a croaker 
 
 Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL, 
 
 Jack. 
 Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is 
 
 Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. 
 Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; — 
 
 Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. 
 
 Frank. 
 Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper 
 Say — by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we 
 sing ? 
 
 Lawrence. 
 Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, 
 J.et him declare the prize he has to bring. 
 
 Jack. 
 Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted 
 First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ; — 
 This, my Beloved, marvellousl}^ mounted, 
 • Amber and foam, — a miracle of art. 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers 
 Grant me a soft alliterative song ! 
 
 Frank. 
 Me too, O Muse ! And when the Umpire slumbers, 
 Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, 
 
 Not where the brook traditionally purls, — 
 
 No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, 
 Seek I the gem, — the paragon of girls. 
 
 Frank. 
 Not in the waste of column and of coping, 
 
 Not in the sham and stucco of a square, — 
 No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping, 
 
 Stands she I honor, beautifully fair. 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYI 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited 
 Back from the brows, imperially curled ; 
 
 Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, 
 Holding the roof that covers in a world. 
 
 Frank. 
 
 Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging 
 Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; 
 
 Eyes like the morning, mouth forever singing, 
 Blithe as a bird, new risen from the corn. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Be-.t is the song with music interwoven : 
 Mine's a musician, — musical at heart,-— 
 
 Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, 
 Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL, 
 
 Frank. 
 
 Best ? You should hear mine trilling out a bal- 
 lad, 
 
 Queen at a picnic, leader of the glees. 
 Not too divine to toss you up a salad, 
 
 Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Ah, when the thick night flares, with drooping 
 torches. 
 
 Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, 
 Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches. 
 
 Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. 
 
 Frank. 
 
 Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,— 
 Better the dim, forgotten garden -seat, 
 
 Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, 
 Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL, 
 Lawrence. 
 
 All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her 
 Round with so delicate divinity, that men, 
 
 Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, 
 Bend to the goddess, manifest again. 
 
 Frank. 
 
 None worship mine. But some, 1 fancy, love 
 her, — 
 
 Cynics to boot. I know the children run. 
 Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, 
 
 Save that she brings the summer and the sun. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly. 
 
 Crowned with a sweet, continual control, 
 Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely 
 
 E'en to her own nobility of soul. 
 
 2:6 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL. 
 
 Frank. 
 
 Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, 
 Fearless in praising, faltering in blame ; 
 
 Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, — • 
 Jack's sister Florence, — now you know her name. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 '•Jack's sister Florence!" Never, Francis, never. 
 
 Jack, do you hear ? Why, it was she I meant. 
 
 She like the country ! Ah, she's far too clever — ■ 
 
 Frank. 
 There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 
 You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head 
 
 bare. 
 
 Sorry to differ. Jack, — the word's with you. 
 217 
 
AN AUTUMN IDYL. 
 
 Frank. • 
 How is it, Umpire ? Though the motto's thread- 
 bare, 
 " Ccelufn^ noji anijnwn" — is, I take it, true. 
 
 Jack. 
 ^^ Souvent femme varie^^ as a rule, is truer; 
 
 Flattered, I'm sure, — but both of you romance. 
 Happy to further suit of either wooer, 
 
 Merely observing — you haven't got a chance. 
 
 Lawrence. 
 Yes. But the Pipe — 
 
 Frank. 
 The Pipe is what we care for, — 
 
 Jack. 
 Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, 
 
 Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, 
 Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. 
 
A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 
 
 ' Le temjis le mieux em^l&ye est celui git'ou perd." 
 
 Claude Tillier. 
 
 T'D ''read" three hours. Both notes and text 
 
 Were fast a mist becoming; 
 l\\ bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, 
 And filled the room with humming, 
 
 Then out. The casement's leafage sways, 
 
 And, parted light, discloses 
 Miss Di., with hat and book, — a maze 
 
 Of muslin mixed with roses. 
 
 " Your' re reading Greek?" "I am — and you?" 
 
 "Oh, mine's a mere romancer!" 
 " So Plato is." " Then read him — do ; 
 
 And I'll read mine in answer." 
 
A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO, 
 
 I read. " My Plato (Plato, too, — 
 That wisdom thus should harden !) 
 
 Declares ' blue eyes look doubly blue 
 Beneath a Dolly Varden.' " 
 
 She smiled. " My book in turn avers 
 
 (No author's name is stated) 
 That sometimes those Philosophers 
 
 Are sadly mis-translated." 
 
 "But hear, — the next's in stronger style: 
 
 The Cynic School asserted 
 That two red lips which part and smile 
 
 May not be controverted ! " 
 
 She smiled once more — " My book, I find, 
 
 Observes some modern doctors 
 Would make the Cynics out a kind 
 
 Of album-verse concoctors." 
 
 220 
 
A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. 
 
 Then I — " Why not ? ' Ephesian law, 
 No less than time's tradition, 
 
 Enjoined fair speech on all who saw 
 Diana's apparition.' " 
 
 She blushed — this time. " If Plato's page 
 
 No wiser precept teaches, 
 Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage. 
 
 And walk to Burnham-beeches.' " 
 
 " Agreed," I said. " For Socrates 
 
 (I find he too is talking) 
 Thinks Learning can't remain at ease 
 
 While Beauty goes a- walking." 
 
 She read no more. I leapt the sill : 
 The sequel's scarce essential — 
 
 Nay, more than this, I hold it still 
 Profoundly confidential. 
 
POT-POURRI. 
 
 "Si jeunesse savait ! — ^'* 
 
 T PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : 
 (An alien touch but dust perceives, 
 
 Nought else supposes ;) 
 Yox nie those fragrant ruins raise 
 Clear memory of the vanished days 
 
 When they were roses. 
 
 "If youth but knew!" Ah, -'if," in truth- 
 I can recall with what gay youth, 
 
 To what light chorus, 
 Unsobered yet by time or change, 
 We roamed the many-gabled Grange, 
 
 All life before us ; 
 
 Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp 
 To catch the dim Arthurian camp 
 In misty distance ; 
 
POT-POURRI. 
 
 Peered at the still-room's sacred stores, 
 Or rapped at walls for sliding doors 
 Of feigned existence. 
 
 Vogue la galere I What need for cares ! 
 The hot sun parched the old parterres 
 
 And "flowerful closes;'' 
 We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, 
 Played hide-and-seek behind the trees, — 
 Then plucked these roses. 
 
 Louise was one — light, glib Louise, 
 So freshly freed from school decrees 
 
 You scarce could stop her ; 
 And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised 
 At fallen locks that scandalized 
 
 Our dear " Miss Proper : " — 
 
 Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness, 
 Who wept — like Chaucer's Prioress, 
 When Dash was. smitten ; 
 
POT-POURRI. 
 
 Who blushed before the mildest men, 
 Yet waxed a very Corday when 
 You teased her kitten. 
 
 I loved them all. Bell first and best ; 
 Louise the next — for days of jest, 
 
 Or madcap masking ; 
 And Ruth, I thought, — why, failing these 
 When my High-Mightiness should please, 
 She'd come for asking. 
 
 Louise was grave when last we met ; 
 Bell's beauty, like the sun, has set ; 
 
 And Ruth, Heaven bless her, 
 Ruth that I wooed, — and wooed in vain, 
 Has gone where neither grief nor pain 
 
 Can now distress her. 
 
A GARDEN IDYL. 
 
 a lady. a poet. 
 
 The Lady. 
 I. 
 
 ^ IR POET, ere you crossed the lawn 
 
 (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon), 
 Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, 
 
 I watched you saunter round the garden. 
 I saw you bend beside the phlox. 
 
 Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, 
 Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, 
 
 Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; 
 
 II. 
 
 You paused beneath the cherry-tree. 
 
 Where my marauder thrush was singing, 
 
 Peered at the bee-hives curiously, 
 And narrowly escaped a stinging ; 
 
A GARDEN IDYL. 
 
 And then — you see I watched — you passed 
 Down the espalier walk that reaches 
 
 Out to the western wall, and last 
 
 Dropped on the seat before the peaches. 
 
 III. 
 
 What was your thought? You waited long. 
 
 Sublime or graceful, — grave, — satiric? 
 A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song? 
 
 A tender Tennysonian lyric? 
 Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, 
 
 So long as speech renown disperses, 
 Illustrious as the spot where he — 
 
 The gifted Blank — composed his verses. 
 
 The Poet. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Madam, — whose uncensorious eye • 
 Grows gracious over certain pages, 
 
 2?6 
 
A GARDEN- IDYL, 
 
 Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, 
 
 It may be, thicker than the Sage's-— 
 
 I hear but to obey, and could 
 
 Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, 
 
 Some verse as whimsical as Hood, — 
 
 As gay as Praed, — should answer to you. 
 
 V. 
 
 But, though the common voice proclaims 
 
 Our only serious vocation 
 Confined to giving nothings names, 
 
 And dreams a " local habitation ; " 
 Believe me, there are tuneless days, 
 
 When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, 
 Would profit much by any lays 
 
 That haunt the poet's cerebellum. 
 
 VI. 
 
 More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, 
 
 More idle things than songs, absorb it; 
 927 
 
A GARDEN IDYL. 
 
 The "finely-frenzied" eye, at times, 
 
 Reposes mildly in its orbit ; 
 And, painful truth, at times, to him, 
 
 Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, 
 "A primrose by a river's brim" 
 
 Is absolutely unsuggestive. 
 
 VII. 
 
 The fickle Muse ! As ladies will, 
 
 She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; 
 A goddess, yet a woman still. 
 
 She flies the more that we pursue her ; 
 In short, with worst as well as best. 
 
 Five months in six your hapless poet 
 Is just as prosy as the rest, 
 
 But cannot comfortably show it. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent 
 
 ' Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation 
 
 2SS 
 
A GARDEN IDYL. 
 
 Of love that came and love that went, — 
 Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, 
 
 Born when the cuckoo changes song, 
 Dead ere the apple's red is on it, 
 
 That should have been an epic long, 
 Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet, 
 
 IX. 
 
 Or else you thought, — the murmuring noon, 
 
 He turns it to a lyric sweeter, 
 With birds that gossip in the tune, 
 
 And windy bough-swing in the metre ; 
 Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms 
 
 Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, 
 Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, 
 
 And mediaeval orchard blossoms, — 
 
 X. 
 
 Quite cb la mode. Alas for prose, — 
 My vagrant fancies only rambled 
 
A GARDEN IDYL. 
 
 Back to the red-walled Rectory close, 
 
 Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled, 
 
 Climbed on the dial, teased the fish. 
 
 And chased the kitten round the beeches, 
 
 Till widening instincts made me wish 
 For certain slowly-ripening peaches. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Three peaches. Not the Graces three 
 
 Had more equality of beauty : 
 I would not look, yet went to see; 
 
 1 wrestled with Desire and Duty ; 
 I felt the pangs of those who feel 
 
 The Laws of Property beset them; 
 The conflict made my reason reel, 
 
 And, half-abstractedly, I ate them ; — 
 
 XII. 
 
 Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair — 
 
 More keen that one of these was rotten — 
 231 
 
A GARDEN IDYL. 
 
 Moved me to seek some forest lair 
 
 Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, 
 
 Attired in skins, by berries stained, 
 
 Absolved from brushes and ablution : — 
 
 But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, 
 Fate gave me up to execution. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 I saw it all but now. The grin 
 
 That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features; 
 My father, scholar-like, and thin, 
 
 Unroused, the teijderest of creatures ; 
 I saw — ah me — I saw again 
 
 My dear and deprecating mother; 
 And then, remembering the cane, 
 
 Regretted— that I'd left the other. 
 
'*LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE." 
 
 "pOOR Rose! I lift you from the street- 
 Far better I should own you 
 Than you should lie for random feet 
 Where careless hands have thrown you. 
 
 Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn ! 
 
 Did heartless Mayfair use you, 
 Then cast you forth to He forlorn. 
 
 For chariot-wheels to bruise you ? 
 
 I saw you last in Edith's hair. 
 
 Rose, you would scarce discover 
 That I she passed upon the stair 
 
 Was Edith's favored lover, 
 
 A month — " a little month " — ago — 
 
 O theme for moral writer ! — 
 Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, 
 
 She might have been politer ; 
 
*«Z^ ROMAN DE LA ROSE." 
 
 But let that pass. She gave you then- 
 
 Behind the oleander 
 To one, perhaps, of all the men, 
 
 Who best could understand her, — 
 
 Cyril, that, duly flattered, took, 
 
 As only Cyril's able. 
 With just the same Arcadian look 
 
 He used, last night, for Mabel ; 
 
 Then, having waltzed till every star 
 Had paled away in morning. 
 
 Lit up his cynical cigar, 
 
 And tossed you downward, scorning. 
 
 Kisjnef, my rose ! Revenge is sweet, — 
 
 She made my heart-strings quiver; 
 
 And yet — You shan't lie in the street : 
 
 I'll drop you in the River. 
 233 
 
DOROTHY. 
 
 A REVERIE. 
 
 [Suggested by the Ttame uj>07i a Pane.) 
 
 O HE then must once have looked, as 
 Look now, across the level rye, — 
 Past Church and Manor-house, and seen, 
 As now I see, the village green. 
 The bridge, and Walton's river — she 
 Whose old-world name was " Dorothy." 
 
 The swallows must have twittered, too, 
 Above her head; the roses blew 
 Below, no doubt, — and, sure, the South 
 Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,- 
 That wistful mouth, which comes to me 
 Linked with her name of Dorothy. 
 
DOROTHY. 
 
 What was she like ? I picture her 
 Unmeet for uncouth worshipper ; — ■ 
 Soft, — pensive, — far too subtly graced 
 To suit the blunt bucolic taste, 
 Whose crude perception could but see 
 " Ma'am fine-airs " in " Miss Dorothy." 
 
 How not? She loved, may be, perfume, 
 Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room ; — 
 Perchance too candidly preferred 
 "Clarissa" to a gossip's word; — 
 And, for the rest, would seem to be 
 Or proud or dull — this Dorothy. 
 
 Poor child — with heart the down-lined nest 
 Of warmest instincts unconfest, 
 Soft, callow things that vaguely felt 
 The breeze caress, the sunlight melt, 
 But yet, by some obscure decree 
 Unwinged from birth; — poor Dorothy! 
 
DOROTHY. 
 
 Not less I dream her mute desire 
 
 To acred churl and booby squire, 
 
 Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled 
 
 At " twice-told tales " of foxes killed ; — 
 
 Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 
 
 'Twixt sport, and Port — and Dorothy ! 
 
 'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find 
 Its evening landscape balmy-kind ; 
 And here, where still her gentle name 
 Lives on the old green glass, would frame 
 Fond dreams of unfound harmony 
 'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy ! 
 
 ■ L' ENVOI. 
 
 These last I spoke. Then Florence said, 
 Below me, — " Dreams ? Delusions, Fred ! " 
 Next, with a pause, — she bent the while 
 Over a rose, with roguish smile — 
 " But how disgusted, sir, you'll be 
 
 To hear / scrawled that ' Dorothy.' " 
 
 236 
 
MISCELLANEOUS, 
 
TO A FISH. 
 
 T T 7 H Y flyest thou away with fear ? 
 
 Trust Die there's nought of danger near, 
 I have no wicked hooke 
 All covered with a snaring bait, 
 Alas ! to tempt thee to thy fate, 
 
 And dragge thee from the brooke. 
 
 harmless tenant of the flood ! 
 
 1 do not wish to spill thy blood, 
 
 For Nature unto thee 
 
 Perchance hath given a tender wife, 
 
 And children dear, to charm thy life, 
 
 As she hath done for me. 
 239 
 
THE CONTRAST, 
 
 Enjoy thy stream, O harmless fish ; 
 And when an angler for his dish. 
 
 Through gluttony's vile sin, 
 Attempts, a wretch, to pull thee <??//, 
 God give thee strength, O gentle trout, 
 
 To pull the raskaU in / 
 
 John Wolcot. 
 
 THE CONTRAST. 
 
 T N London I never know what I'd be at, 
 
 Enraptured with this, and enchanted with that, 
 I'm wild with the sweets of variety's plan, 
 And Life seems a blessing too happy for man. 
 
 But the country. Lord help me ! sets all matters 
 
 right, 
 So calm and composing from morning to night ', 
 Oh ! it settles the spirits when nothing is seen 
 But an ass on a common, a goose on a green. 
 
THE CONTRAST, 
 
 In town if it rain, when it damps not our hope^ 
 The eye has her choice, and the fancy her scope ; 
 What harm though it pour whole nights or whole 
 
 days ? 
 It spoils not our prospects, or stops not our ways. 
 
 In the country what bliss, when it rains in the fields, 
 To live on the transports that shuttlecock yields ; 
 Or go crawling from window to window, to see 
 A pig on a dunghill, or crow on a tree. 
 
 In London, if folks ill together are put, 
 A bore may be dropt, and a quiz may be cut ; 
 We change without end ; and if lazy or ill, 
 All wants are at hand, and all wishes at will. 
 
 In the country you're nail'd, like a pale in the park. 
 To some stick of a neighbor that's cramm'd in 
 the ark ; 
 
 i6 241 
 
THE CONTRAST. 
 
 And 'tis odd, if you're hurt, or in fits tumble down, 
 You reach death ere the doctor can reach you 
 from town. 
 
 In London how easy we visit and meet, 
 
 Gay pleasure's the -theme, and sweet smiles are 
 
 our treat : 
 Our morning's a round of good-humor'd delight, 
 And we rattle, in comfort, to pleasure at night. 
 
 In the country, how sprightly ! our visits we make 
 Through ten miles of mud, for Formality's sake ; 
 With the coachman in drink, and the moon in 
 
 a fog, 
 And no thought in our head but a ditch or a bog. 
 
 In London the spirits are cheerful and light, 
 All places are gay and all faces are bright ; 
 We've ever new joys, and revived by each whim, 
 Each day on a fresh tide of pleasure we swim. 
 
THE CONTRAST. 
 
 But how gay in the country ! what summer delight 
 To be waiting for winter from morning to night ! 
 Then the fret of impatience gives exquisite glee 
 To rehsh the sweet rural subjects we see. 
 
 In town we've no use for the skies overhead, 
 For when the sun rises then we go to bed ; 
 And as to that old-fashion'd virgin the moon, 
 She shines out of season, like satin in June. 
 
 In the country these planets delightfully glare 
 Just to show us the object we want isn't there ; 
 O, how cheering and gay, when their beauties arise, 
 To sit and gaze round with the tears in one's eyes ! 
 
 }3ut 'tis in the country alone we can find 
 
 That hai)py resource, that relief of the mind, 
 
 When, drove to despair, our last efforts we make, 
 
 And drag the old fish-pond, for novelty's sake : 
 243 
 
THE CONTRAST. ^ 
 
 Indeed I must own, 'tis a pleasure complete 
 To see ladies well draggled and wet in their feet ; 
 But what is all that to the transport we feel 
 When we capture, in triumph, two toads and an 
 eel? 
 
 I have heard tho', that love in a cottage is sweet 
 When two hearts in one link of soft sympathy 
 
 meet : 
 That's to come — for as yet, I, alas ! am a swain 
 Who require, I own it, more links to my chain. 
 
 Your magpies and stock-doves may flirt among 
 
 trees, 
 And chatter their transports in groves, if they 
 
 please : 
 
 But a house is much more to my taste than a tree, 
 
 And for groves, O ! a good grove of chimneys 
 
 for me. 
 
 244 
 
THE CONTRAST. 
 
 In the country, if Cupid should find a man out, 
 The poor tortured victim mopes hopeless about ; 
 But in London, thank Heaven ! our peace is 
 
 secure. 
 Where for one eye to kill, there's a thousand to 
 
 I know love's a devil, too subtle to spy, 
 That shoots through the soul, from the beam of 
 
 an. eye ; 
 But in London these devils so quick fly about, 
 That a new devil still drives an old devil out. 
 
 In town let me live then, in town let me die, 
 For in truth I can't relish the country, not I. 
 ]f one must have a villa in summer to dwell, 
 O, give me the sweet shady side of Pall Mall ! 
 Captain Charles Morris, 
 
 HS 
 
TO 
 
 f^^ O — you may call it madness, folly, 
 
 You shall not chase my gloom away ; 
 There's such a charm in melancholy, 
 I would not, if I could, be gay. 
 
 O, if you knew the pensive pleasure 
 That fills my bosom when I sigh, 
 
 You would not rob me of a treasure 
 Monarchs are too poor to buy. 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST. 
 
 'T^^READ lightly here, for here, 'tis said, 
 
 When piping winds are hush'd around, 
 A small note wakes from underground 
 
 Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
 
 246 
 
THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN. 
 
 No more in lone and leafless groves, 
 With ruffled wing and faded breast, 
 
 His friendless, homeless spirit roves ; 
 
 — Gone to the world where birds are blest ! 
 
 Where never cat glides o'er the green, 
 
 Or schoolboy's giant form is seen ; 
 
 But Love, and Joy, and smiling Spring 
 
 Inspire their little souls to sing ! 
 
 Samuel Rogers. 
 
 THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN. 
 
 w 
 
 HEN I was a maid. 
 Nor of lovers afraid, 
 My mother cried, " Girl, never listen to men." 
 Her lectures were long. 
 But I thought her quite wrong, 
 And said I, " Mother, whom should I listen to, 
 then ? " 
 
 247 
 
THE OLD STORY OVER AGAIN, 
 
 Now teaching, in turn, 
 
 What I never could learn, 
 I find, like my mother, my lessons all vain ; 
 
 Men ever deceive, 
 
 Silly maidens believe, 
 And still 'tis the old story over again. 
 
 So humbly they woo, 
 
 What can poor maidens do 
 But keep them alive when they swear they must 
 die ? 
 
 Ah ! who can forbear, 
 
 As they weep in despair, 
 Their crocodile tears in compassion to dry? 
 
 Yet, wedded at last. 
 
 When the honeymoon's past, 
 
 The lovers forsake us, the husbands remain ; 
 
 848 
 
WIFE^ CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 Our vanity's check'd, 
 . And we ne'er can expect 
 They will tell us the old story over again. 
 
 James Kenny. 
 
 WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 TT THEN the black-letter'd list to the gods 
 
 was presented, 
 
 (The list of what Fate for each mortal intends) 
 
 At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, 
 
 And slipt in three blessings — wife, children, and 
 
 friends. 
 
 In vain surly Pluto maintain' d he was cheated, 
 For justice divine could not compass her ends ; 
 
 The scheme of man's penance he swore was de- 
 feated, 
 For earth becomes heaven with wife, children, 
 
 and friends. 
 
 249 
 
WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 If the stock of our bliss is in stranger liands vested, 
 The fund ill-secured oft in bankruptcy ends ; 
 
 But the heart issues bills which are never protested 
 When drawn on the firm of Wife, Children, and 
 Friends. 
 
 Though valor still glows in his life's waning embers, 
 The death-wounded tar who his colors defends, 
 
 Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers 
 How blest was his home with wife, children, and 
 friends. 
 
 The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, 
 Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, 
 
 With transport would barter whole ages of glory 
 For one happy day with wife, children, and 
 friends. 
 
 Though spice-breathing gales o'er his caravan hover, 
 Though round him Arabia's whole fragrance as- 
 cends, 
 
WIFE, CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 
 
 The merchant still thinks of the woodbines that 
 cover 
 The bower where he sat with wife, children, and 
 friends. 
 
 The day-spring of youth, still unclouded by sorrow, 
 Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; 
 
 But drear is the twilight of age if it borrow 
 No warmth from the smiles of wife, children, 
 and friends. 
 
 Let the breath of Renown ever freshen and cherish 
 The laurel which o'er her dead favorite bends. 
 
 O'er me wave the willow ! and long may it flourish 
 Bedew' d with the tears of wife, children, and 
 friends. 
 
 Let us drink — for my song, growing graver and 
 graver. 
 
 To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; 
 251 
 
TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 
 
 Let us diink — pledge me high — Love and Virtue 
 shall flavor 
 The glass which I fill to wife, children, and friends. 
 Hon. William R. Spencer. 
 
 TO LADY ANNE HAMILTON. 
 
 T 
 
 00 late I stayed ! forgive the crime, — 
 
 Unheeded flew the hours ; 
 How noiseless falls the foot of Time 
 
 That only treads en flowers ! 
 
 What eye with clear account remarks 
 
 The ebbing of his glass, 
 When all its sands are diamond sparks, 
 
 That dazzle as they i)ass ? 
 
 Ah ! who to sober measurement 
 
 Time's happy swiftness brings. 
 When birds of paradise have lent 
 
 Their plumage for his wings ? 
 
 Hon. William R. Spencer. 
 
JOB. 
 
 O LY Beelzebub took all occasions 
 
 To try Job's constancy and patience. 
 He took his honor, took his health ; 
 He took his children, took his wealth, 
 His servants, horses, oxen, cows, — 
 But cunning Satan did not take his spouse. 
 
 But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, 
 
 And loves to disappoint the devil, • 
 
 Had predetermined to restore 
 
 Twofold all he had before ; 
 
 His servants, horses, oxen, cows — ■ 
 
 Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse ! 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 T ASKED my fair one happy day. 
 
 What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; 
 253 
 
TO HESTER SAVORY, 
 
 Lalage, Necera, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 Arethusa or Lucrece. 
 
 " Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 
 "Beloved, what are names but air? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
 Call me Sa[)pho, call me Chloris, 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me thine." 
 
 Samuel T. Coleridge. 
 
 TO HESTER SAVORY. 
 
 w 
 
 HEN maidens such as Hester die, 
 Their place we may not well supply, 
 Thougli we among a thousand try 
 
 With vain endeavor. 
 A month or more hath she been dead, 
 Yet cannot I by force be led 
 
TO HESTER SAVORY. 
 
 To think upon the wormy bed 
 And her together. 
 
 A springy motion in her gait, 
 
 A rising step, did indicate 
 
 Of pride and joy no common rate 
 
 That flushed her spirit : 
 I know not by what name beside 
 I shall it call; if 'twas not pride, 
 It was a joy to that allied 
 
 She did inherit. 
 
 Her parents held the Quaker rule 
 Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
 But she was train'd in Nature's school, 
 
 Nature had blest her. 
 A waking eye, a prying mind, 
 A heart that stirs, is hard to bind ; 
 A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 
 
 Ye could not Hester. 
 
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN, 
 
 My sprightly neighbor ! gone before 
 To that unknown and silent shore, 
 Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
 
 Some summer morning — 
 When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
 Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
 A bhss that would not go away, 
 
 A sweet fore-warning? 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 
 
 I ^OR many a winter in Billiter-lane, 
 
 My wife, Mrs. Brown, was not heard to 
 complain ; 
 At Christmas the family met there to dine 
 Oil beef and plum-pudding, and turkey and chine. 
 Our bark has now taken a contrary heel, 
 My wife has found out that the sea is genteel. 
 
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 
 
 To Brighton we duly go scampering down, 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town, 
 
 Our register-stoves, and our crimson-baized doors, 
 Our weather-proof walls, and our carpeted floors, 
 Our casements well fitted to stem the north wind, 
 Our arm-chair and sofa, are all left behind. 
 We lodge on the Steyne, in a bow-windowed box, 
 That beckons up-stairs every Zephyr that knocks ; 
 The sun hides his head, and the elements frown, — 
 But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 In Billiter-lane, at this mirth-moving time, 
 The lamp-lighter brought us his usual rhyme. 
 The tricks of Grimaldi were sure to be seen. 
 We carved a twelfth-cake, and we drew king and 
 
 queen ; 
 These pastimes gave oil to Time's roundabout 
 
 wheel, 
 Before we began to be growing genteel ; 
 
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN". 
 
 'Twas all very well for a cockney or clown, 
 But nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 At Brighton I'm stuck up in Donaldson's shop, 
 Or walk upon bricks till I'm ready to drop ; 
 Throw stones at an anchor, look out for a skiff. 
 Or view the Chain-pier from the top of the 
 
 Cliff; 
 Till winds from all quarters oblige me to halt, 
 With an eye full of sand, and a mouth full of 
 
 salt, 
 Yet still I am suffering with folks of renown. 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 In gallop the winds, at the full of the moon. 
 And puff up the carpet like Sadler's balloon ; 
 My drawing-room rug is besprinkled with soot, 
 And there is not a lock in the house that will 
 shut. 
 
 8S8 
 
CHRISTMAS OUT OF TOWN. 
 
 At Mahomet's steam-bath 1 lean on my cane, 
 And murmur in secret, — " Oh, Billiter-lane ! " 
 But would not express what I think for a crown, 
 For nobody now spends his Christmas in Town. 
 
 The Duke and the Earl are no cronies of mine, 
 
 His Majesty never invites me to dine ; 
 
 The Marquis won't speak when we meet on the 
 
 pier, 
 Which makes me suspect that I'm nobody here. 
 If that be the case, why then welcome again 
 Twelfth-cake and snap-dragon in Billiter-lan^. 
 Next winter I'll prove to my dear Mrs. Brown, 
 That N'ohody now spends his Christmas in 
 
 Town. 
 
 James Smith. 
 
 aS9 
 
SONG TO FANNY. 
 
 XTATURE! thy fair and smiling face 
 Has now a double power to bless, 
 For 'lis the glass in which I trace 
 My absent Fanny's loveliness. 
 
 Her heavenly eyes above me shine, 
 The rose reflects her modest blush, 
 
 She breathes in every eglantine, 
 She sings in every warbling thrush. 
 
 That her dear form alone I see 
 Need not excite surprise in any, 
 
 For Fanny's all the world to me, 
 And all the world to me is Fanny. 
 
 Horace Smith. 
 
 6c 
 
MARGARET AND DORA. 
 
 "V /r ARGARET'S beauteous— Grecian arts 
 
 Ne'er drew form completer, 
 Yet why, in hiy heart of hearts, 
 Hold I Dora's sweeter ? 
 
 Dora's eyes of heavenly blue 
 
 Pass all paintings' reach, 
 Ringdove's notes are discord to 
 
 The music of her speech. 
 
 Artists ! Margaret's smile receive, 
 
 And on canvas show it ; 
 But for perfect worship leave 
 
 Dora to her poet. 
 
 Thomas Campbell. 
 
 261 
 
THE POPLAR. 
 
 A Y, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so 
 
 stately, 
 On whose tender rind — 'twas a little one then — 
 We carved her initials ; though not very lately, 
 We think in the year eighteen hundred and ten. 
 
 Yes, here is the G which proclaim' d Georgiana, 
 Our heart's empress then ; see, 'tis grown all 
 askew ; 
 
 And it's not without grief we perforce entertain a 
 Conviction it now looks much more like a Q. 
 
 This should be the great D, too, that once 
 stood for Dobbin, 
 Her loved patronymic — Ah ! can it be so ? 
 Its once fair proportions, time, too, has been 
 robbing : 
 
 'AD? we'll be Deed if it isn't an 1 
 
 262 
 
5 YMPA THY. 
 
 Alas! how the soul sentimental it vexes, 
 
 That thus on our labors stern Chronos should 
 frown ; 
 Should change our soft liquids to izzards and Xes, 
 And turn true love's alphabet all upside down ! 
 . Richard Barham (Ingoldsby). 
 
 SYMPATHY. 
 
 A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove, 
 While each was in quest of a fugitive love; 
 A river ran mournfully murmuring by, 
 And they wept in its waters for sympathy. 
 
 '' O, never was knight such a sorrow that bore!" 
 "O, never was maid so deserted before ! " 
 " From life and its woes let us instantly fly. 
 And jump in together for company 1 " 
 
 They search'd for an eddy that suited the deed, 
 But here was a bramble, and there was a weed ; 
 
SYMPATHY. 
 
 " How tiresome it is ! " said the fair with a sigh ; 
 So they sat down to rest them in company. 
 
 They gazed at each other, the maid and the 
 knight ; • 
 
 How fair was her form, and how goodly his height 
 
 " One moLirnfal embrace ; " sobb'd the youth, 
 
 " ere we die ! " 
 So kissing and crying kept company. 
 
 *' O, had I but loved such an angel as you ! " 
 " O, had but my swain been a quarter as true ! "• 
 " To miss such perfection how blinded was I ! " 
 Sure now they were excellent company ! 
 
 At length spoke the lass, 'twixt a smile and a tear, 
 *'The weather is cold for a watery bier; 
 When summer returns we may easily die. 
 Till then let us sorrow in company." 
 
 Reginald Heber. 
 264 
 
T 
 
 ALBUM VERSES. 
 
 HOU record of the votive throng, 
 
 That fondly seek this fairy shrine, 
 And pay the tribute of a song 
 
 Where worth and loveUness combine, — 
 
 What boots that I, a vagrant wight 
 
 From clime to clime still wandering on, 
 
 Upon thy friendly page should write 
 
 — Who'll think of me when I am gone ? 
 
 Go plough the wave, and sow the sand ! 
 
 Throw seed to ev'ry wind that blows; 
 Along the highway strew thy hand, 
 
 And fatten on the crop that grows. 
 
 For even thus the man that roams 
 
 On heedless hearts his feeling spends ; 
 265 
 
Strange tenant of a thousand homes, 
 And friendless, with ten thousand friends ! 
 
 Yet here, for once, I'll leave a trace, 
 To ask in after times a thought ! 
 
 To say that here a resting-place 
 
 My wayworn heart has fondly sought. 
 
 So the poor pilgrim heedless strays, 
 Unmoved, thro' many a region fair ; 
 
 But at some shrine his tribute pays 
 To tell that he has worshipp'd there. 
 
 Washington Irving. 
 
 *' JENNY KISSED ME." 
 
 TENNY kissed me when we met, 
 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in ; 
 
 Time, you thief, who love to get 
 
 Sweets into your list, jnit that in : 
 266 
 
A LOVE LESSON. 
 
 Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 
 
 Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
 Say I'm growing old, but add, 
 
 Jenny kissed me ! 
 
 Leigh Hunt. 
 
 A LOVE LESSON. 
 
 A SWEET "No, no,"— with a sweet smile 
 
 beneath. 
 Becomes an honest girl ; I'd have you learn it : — 
 As for plain " Yes," it may be said i' faith. 
 Too plainly and too oft : — pray, well discern it — 
 
 Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete. 
 
 Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you ; 
 
 But that in suffering me to take it. Sweet, 
 
 I'd have you say, '^ No, no, 1 will not let you." 
 
 LciGH Hunt. 
 267 
 
RICH AND POOR; OR, SAINT AND 
 
 SINNER. 
 
 'nr* HE i)Oor man's sins are glaring; 
 In the face of ghostly warning 
 
 He is caught in the fact 
 
 Of an overt act — 
 Buying greens on Sunday morning. 
 
 The rich man's sins are hidden 
 
 In the pomp of wealth and station ; 
 
 And escape the sight 
 
 Of the children of light, 
 Who are wise in their generation. 
 
 The rich man has a kitchen, 
 And cooks to dress his dinner ; 
 
 The poor who would roast 
 
 To the baker's must post, 
 
 And thus becomes a sinner. 
 
 268 
 
RICH AND POOR. 
 
 The rich man has a cellar, 
 And a ready buller by him ; 
 
 The poor must steer 
 
 For his pint of beer, 
 Where the Saint can't choose but spy him. 
 
 The rich man's painted windows 
 Hide the concerts of the quality; 
 
 The poor can but share 
 
 A crack' d fiddle in the air, 
 Which offends all sound morality. 
 
 The rich man is invisible 
 
 In the crowd of his gay society ; 
 
 But the poor man's delight' 
 
 Is a sore in the sight, 
 And a stench in the nose of piety. 
 
 Thomas L. Peacock. 
 
 269 
 
LOVE AND AGE. 
 
 T PLAY'D with you 'mid cowslips blowing, 
 
 When I was six and you were four : 
 When garlands weaving, flower-balls throwing, 
 
 Were pleasures soon to please no more. 
 Thro' groves and meads, o'er grass and heather, 
 
 With httle playmates, to and fro, 
 We wander'd hand in hand together ; 
 
 But that was sixty years ago. 
 
 Vou grew a lovely roseate maiden. 
 
 And still our early love was strong ; 
 Still with no care our days were laden, 
 
 They glided joyously along ; 
 And I did love you very dearly — 
 
 How dearly, words want power to show ; 
 
 thought your heart was touched as nearly ; 
 
 But that was fifty years ago. 
 
LOFE AND AGE. 
 
 Then other lovers came around you, 
 
 Your beauty grew from year to year, 
 And many a splendid circle found you 
 
 The centre of its glittering sphere. 
 I saw you then, first vows forsaking, 
 
 On rank and wealth your hand bestow ; 
 O, then, I thought my heart was breaking, 
 
 But that was forty years ago. 
 
 And I lived on, to wed another : 
 
 No cause she gave me to repine ; 
 And when I heard you were a mother, 
 
 I did not wish the children mine. 
 My own young flock, in fair progression, 
 
 Afade up a pleasant Christmas row : 
 My joy in them was past expression ; — 
 
 But that was thirty years ago. 
 
 You grew a matron plump and comely, 
 You dwelt in fashion's brightest blaze ; 
 
LOVE AND AGE, 
 
 My earthly lot was far more homely ; 
 
 But I too had my festal days. 
 No merrier eyes have ever glisten'd 
 
 Around the hearth-stone's wintry glow, 
 Than when my your.gest child was christen'd 
 
 But that was twenty years ago. 
 
 Time passed. My eldest girl was married, 
 
 And I am now a grandsire grey ; 
 One pet of four years old I've carried 
 
 Among the wild-flower'd meads to play. 
 In our old fields of childish pleasure, 
 
 Where now, as then, the cowslips blow, 
 She fills her basket's ample measure, — 
 
 And that is not ten years ago. 
 
 Bat tho' first love's impassion'd blindness 
 Has pass'd away in colder light, 
 
 I still have thought of you with kindness, 
 And shall do, till our last good-night. 
 
FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 The ever-rolling silent hours 
 
 Will bring a time we shall not know, 
 When our young days of gathering flowers 
 
 Will be an hundred years ago. 
 
 Thomas L. Peacock. 
 
 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 TT^ILL the goblet again ! for I never before 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart 
 
 to its core : 
 Let us drink! who would not? since, thro' life's 
 
 varied round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply; 
 I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye; 
 I have loved ! — who has not? — but what heart can 
 declare 
 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there? 
 
 18 273 
 
FILL rilE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart's in its 
 
 spring, 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 1 had friends i— who has not? — but what tongue 
 
 will avow, 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are as faithful as thou ? 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou never 
 
 canst change ; 
 Thou grow'st old — who does not? — but on earth 
 
 what appears, 
 Whose virtues, like thine still increase with its years ? 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
 We are jealous! — who's not? — thou hast no such 
 
 alloy, 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 
 
GOOD-NIGHT, 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities pa,>t 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last ; 
 lliere we find— do we not? — in the flow of the soul 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth. 
 And misery's triumph commenced over mirth, 
 Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the goblet we 
 
 kiss. 
 And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss. 
 
 Lord Byron. 
 
 GOOD-NIGHT. 
 
 /^OOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill 
 
 Which severs those it should unite ; 
 Let us remain together still. 
 Then it will be 6^^^^-night. 
 
 87S 
 
TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 How can I call the lone night good, 
 Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight ? 
 
 Be it not said, thought, understood, 
 That it will be 6^^^^-night. 
 
 To hearts which near each other move 
 From evening close to morning light, 
 
 The night is good ; because, . my Love, 
 They never say Good- night. 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR, 
 
 rpHHY smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays, 
 
 So beautiful approve thee, 
 So winning light are all thy ways, 
 I cannot choose but love thee. 
 Thy balmy breath upon my brow 
 
 Ts like the summer air, 
 
 376 
 
TO A GIRL IN HER THIRTEENTH YEAR. 
 
 As o'er my cheek thou leanest now, 
 To plant a soft kiss there. 
 
 Thy steps are dancing toward the bound 
 
 Between tie child and woman, 
 And thoughts and feelings more profound. 
 
 And other years are coming : 
 And thou shalt be more deeply fair 
 
 More precious to the heart, 
 But never canst thou be again 
 
 That lovely thing thou art ! 
 
 And youth shall pass, with all the brood 
 
 Of fancy-fed affection ; 
 And grief shall conie with womanhood, 
 
 And waken cold reflection. 
 Thou'lt learn to toil, and watch, and weep. 
 
 O'er pleasures unreturning, 
 Like one who wakes from pleasant sleep 
 
 Unto the cares of morning. 
 
A FASHIONABLE NOVEL. 
 
 Nay, say not so ! nor cloud the sun 
 
 Of joyous expectation, 
 Oiclain'd to bless the little one — 
 
 The freshling of creation ! 
 
 Sidney Walker. 
 
 A FASHIONABLE NOVEL. 
 
 T ORD HARRY has written a novel, 
 A story of elegant life ; 
 No stuff about love in a hovel, 
 
 No sketch of a commoner's wife : 
 No trash such as pathos and i)assion. 
 Fine feelings, expression, and wit ; 
 But all about people of fashion, 
 
 Come look at his caps how they fit ! 
 
 O, Radcliffe ! thou once wert the charmer 
 
 Of girls who sat reading all night ; 
 
 278 
 
A FASHIONABLE NOVEL. 
 
 Thy heroes were striplings in armor, 
 Thy heroines damsels in white. 
 
 But past are thy terrible touches, 
 Our lips in derision we curl, 
 
 Unless we are told how a Duchess, 
 Conversed with her cousin the Earl. 
 
 We now have each dialogue quite full 
 
 Of titles — " I give you my word, 
 My lady, you're looking delightful." 
 
 " O dear, do you think so, my lord ! ' 
 "You've heard of the marquis's marriage, 
 
 The bride with her jevrels new set, 
 Four horses, new travelling carriage. 
 
 And (Icj'c'uner d, la fourchefte.'' 
 
 Haut Ton finds her privacy broken, 
 
 We trace all her ins and her outs ; 
 
 The ver)' small ta^k that is spoken 
 
 By very great people at routs, 
 279 
 
WON'T YOU. 
 
 At Tenby Ivliss Jinks asks the loan of 
 The book from the innkeeper's wife, 
 
 And reads till she dreams she is one of 
 The leaders of elegant life. 
 
 Thomas Havnes Bayly. 
 
 WON'T YOU? 
 
 I. 
 T~\0 you^ remember when you heard 
 
 My lips breathe love's first faltering word? 
 You do, sweet — don't you ? 
 When having wandered all the day, 
 Linked arm in arm, I dared to say, 
 "You'll love me — won't you?" 
 
 II. 
 And when you blushed, and could not speak, 
 I fondly kissed your glowing cheek ; 
 Did that affront you ? 
 
NYDIA'S LOVE-SONG. 
 
 Oh, surely not ; your eye exprest 
 No wrath — but said, perhaps in jest, 
 "You'll love me — won't you?" 
 
 III. 
 
 I'm sure my eyes replied, "I will; ' 
 And you believe that promise still ; 
 
 You do, sweet — don't you ? 
 Yes, yes ! when age has made our eyes 
 Unfit for questions or replies, 
 
 You'll love me — won't you? 
 
 Thomas Haynes Bayly. 
 
 NYDIA'S LOVE-SONG. 
 
 ^ I ^HE wind and the beam loved the rose, 
 
 And the rose loved one ; 
 
 For who recks the wind where it blows ? 
 
 Or loves not the sun ? 
 281 
 
MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 None knew whence the hiuiible wind stole 
 
 Poor sport of the skies — 
 None dreamt that the wind had a soul, 
 
 In its mournful sighs ! 
 
 O hap[)y beam ! how canst thou prove 
 
 That bright love of thine ? 
 In thy light is the proof of thy love, 
 
 Thou hast but to shine ! 
 
 How its love can the wind reveal ? 
 
 Unwelcome its sigh ; 
 Mute — mute to its rose let it steal — 
 
 Its proof is— to die ! 
 
 E. BuLWER Lytton. 
 
 MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 M 
 
 AIDEN ! with the meek, brown eyes, 
 In whose orbs a shadow lies 
 
 Like the dusk in evening skies ! 
 282 
 
MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 Thou whose locks outshine the sun, 
 Golden tresses, wreathed in one. 
 As the braided streamlets run ! 
 
 Standing, with reluctant feet, 
 Where the brook and river meet. 
 Womanhood and childhood fleet ! 
 
 Gazing, with a timid glance. 
 On the brooklet's swift advance. 
 On the river's broad expanse ! 
 
 Deep and still, that gliding stream 
 Beautiful to thee must seem. 
 As the river of a dream. 
 
 Then why pause with indecision. 
 
 When bright angels in thy vision 
 
 Beckon thee to fields Elysian ? 
 283 
 
MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 Seest thou shadows sailing by, 
 As the dove, with startled eye, 
 Sees the falcon's shadow fly ? 
 
 Hearest thou voices on the shore, 
 That our ears perceive no more. 
 Deafened by the cataract's roar? 
 
 O, thou child of many prayers ! 
 
 Life hath quicksands, — Life hath snares 
 
 Care and age come unawares ! 
 
 Like the swell of some sweet tune, 
 Morning rises into noon. 
 May glides onward into June. 
 
 Childhood is the bough, where slumbered 
 Birds and blossoms many-numbered ; — 
 
 ' Age, that bough with snows encumbered. 
 
 284 
 
MAIDENHOOD. 
 
 Gather, then, each flower that grows, 
 When the young heart overflows, 
 To embahn that tent of snows. 
 
 Bear a Hly in thy hand; 
 Gates of brass cannot withstand 
 One touch of that magic wand. 
 
 Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, 
 In thy heart the dew of youth, 
 On thy hps the smile of truth. 
 
 O, that dew, Uke bahn, shall steal 
 Into wounds that cannot heal, 
 Even as sleep our eyes doth seal. 
 
 And that smile, like sunshine, dart 
 Into many a sunless heart. 
 For a smile of God thou art. 
 
 Henry W. Longfellow. 
 
 283 
 
THE LETTERS. 
 
 OTILL on the tower stood the vane, 
 
 A black yew gloom' d the stagnant air, 
 I peer'd athwart the chancel pane 
 
 And saw the altar cold and bare. 
 A clog of lead was round my feet, 
 A band of pain across my brow ; 
 "Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet 
 Before you hear my marriage vow." 
 
 1 turned and humm'd a bitter song 
 
 That mock'd the wholesome human heart, 
 And then we met in wrath and wrong, 
 
 We met, but only meant to part. 
 Full cold my greeting was and dry ; 
 
 She faintly smiled, she hardly moved ; 
 I saw with half unconscious eye 
 
 She wore the colors I approved. 
 
THE LETTERS. 
 
 She took the little ivory chest, 
 
 With half a sigh she turn'd the key, 
 Then raised her head with lips comprest. 
 
 And gave my letters back to me 
 And gave the trinkets and the rings. 
 
 My gifts, when gifts of mine could please 
 As looks a father on the things 
 
 Of his dead son, I looked on these. 
 
 She told me all her friends had said ; 
 
 I raged against the public liar ; 
 She talk'd as if her love were dead. 
 
 But in my words were seeds of fire. 
 " No more of love ; your sex is known : 
 
 I never will be twice deceived. 
 Henceforth I trust the man alone. 
 
 The woman cannot be believed. 
 
 Thro' slander, meanest spawn of hell 
 
 (And woman's slander is the worst), 
 
 287 
 
THE LETTERS. 
 
 And you, whom once I lov'd so well, 
 Thro' you, my Ufe will be accurst." 
 
 I spoke with heart and heat and force, 
 I shook her breast with vague alarms — 
 
 Like torrents from a mountain source 
 We rush'd into each other's arms. 
 
 We parted : sweetly gleam'd the stars. 
 
 And sweet the vapor — braided blue, 
 Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars, 
 
 As homeward by the charch I drew. 
 The very graves api)ear'd to smile. 
 
 So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells ; 
 Dark porch," I said, '' and silent aisle 
 
 There comes a sound of marriage bells." 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 
LILIAN. 
 
 A IRY, fairy Lilian 
 
 Flitting, fairy Lilian, 
 When I ask her if she love me, 
 Claps her liny hands above me, 
 
 Laughing all she can ; 
 She'll not tell me if she love me, 
 Cruel little Lilian. 
 
 When my passion seeks 
 
 Pleasance in love-sighs 
 She, looking thro' and thro' me 
 Thoroughly to undo me, 
 
 Smiling never speaks : 
 So innocent — arch, so cunning — simple, 
 From beneath her gather'd wimi^le 
 
 Glancing with black-beaded eyes, 
 Till the lightning laughters dimple 
 
 ^9 289 
 
LILTAN. 
 
 The baby-roses in her cheeks; 
 Then away she flies. 
 
 Prythee weep, May Lilian! 
 
 Gaiety without eclipse 
 Wearieth me, May Lilian : 
 Thro' my very heart it thrilleth 
 
 When from crimson-threaded lips 
 Silver-treble laughter trilleth : 
 
 Prythee weep, May LiUan. 
 
 Praying all I can, 
 If prayers will not hush thee, 
 Airy Lilian, 
 . Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, 
 Fairy Lilian. 
 
 Alfred Tennyson. 
 290 
 
A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 
 
 T OVE me, sweet, with all thou art, 
 Feeling, thinking, seeing ; 
 Love me in the lightest part, 
 Love me in full being. 
 
 Love me with thine open youth 
 
 In its frank surrender ; 
 With the vowing of thy mouth, 
 
 With its silence tender. 
 
 Love me with thine azure eyes, 
 Made for earnest granting ; 
 
 Taking color from the skies, 
 
 Can Heaven's truth be wanting ? 
 
 Love me Avith their lids that fall 
 Snow-like at first meeting ; 
 
 Love me with thine heart, that all 
 Neighbors then see beating. 
 
A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 
 
 Love me with thine hand stretched out 
 
 Freely — open-minded : 
 Ivove me with thy loitering foot— • 
 
 Hearing one behind it. 
 
 Love me with thy voice, that turns 
 
 Sudden faint above me ; 
 Love me with thy blush that burns 
 
 When I murmur, Love me 1 
 
 Love me with thy thinking soul; 
 
 Break it to love-sighing ; 
 Love me with thy thoughts that roll 
 
 On through living — dying. 
 
 Love me in thy gorgeous airs. 
 
 When the world has crowned thee ; 
 
 Love me kneeling at thy prayers, 
 With the angels round thee. 
 
A MAN'S REQUIREMENTS. 
 
 Love me pure, as musers do, 
 
 Up the woodlands shady ; 
 Love me gayl}^, fast and true, 
 
 As a winsome lady. 
 
 Through all hopes that keep us brave, 
 
 Further off or nigher ; 
 Love me for the house and grave, 
 
 And for something higher. 
 
 Thus, if thou wilt prove me, dear, 
 
 Woman's love no fable, 
 I will love thee — half a year — 
 
 As a man is able. 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 293 
 
THE LAY OF THE LEVITE. 
 
 •^ I ^HERE is a sound that's dear to me, 
 
 It haunts me in my sleep ; 
 I wake, and, if I hear it not, 
 
 I cannot choose but weep. 
 Above the roaring of the wind, 
 
 Above the river's flow, 
 Methinks I hear the mystic cry 
 
 Of "Clo!— old Clo!" 
 
 The exile's song, it thrills among 
 
 The dwellings of the free, 
 Its sound is strange to English ears, 
 
 But 'tis not strange to me ; 
 For it hath shook the tented field 
 
 In ages long ago, 
 And hosts have quail'd before the cry 
 
 Of "Clo!— old Clo!" 
 
THE LAY OF THE LEVITE. 
 
 O, lose it not ! forsa]-ce it not ! 
 
 And let no time efface 
 The memory of that solemn sound, 
 
 The watchword of our race ; 
 For not by dark and eagle eye, 
 
 The Hebrew shalt thou know, 
 So well as by the plaintive cry 
 
 Of '' Clo !~old Clo ! " 
 
 Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, 
 
 Or Sidon's sunny walls, 
 Where, dial-like, to portion time. 
 
 The palm-tree's shadow falls. 
 The pilgrims, wending on their way, 
 
 Will linger as they go, 
 And listen to the distant cry 
 
 Of ''Clo!— old Clo!" 
 
 Wm. E. Aytoun. 
 
TO A FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 OWEET flower, that with thy soft blue eye 
 
 Didst once look up in shady spot, 
 To whisper to the passer-by 
 
 Those tender words — Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Though withered now, thou art to me 
 The minister of gentle thought, — 
 
 And 1 could weep to gaze on thee, 
 Love's faded pledge — Forget-me-not. 
 
 Thou speak' St of hours when I was young, 
 
 And happiness arose unsought. 
 When she, the whispering woods among, 
 
 Gave me thy bloom — Forget-me-not ! 
 
 That rapturous hour with that dear maid 
 From memory's page no time shall blot, 
 
 When, yielding to my kiss, she said, 
 " O Theodore — Forget me not ! " 
 
 sg6 
 
TO A FORGET-ME-NOT. 
 
 Alas ! for love, alas ! for truth, 
 Alas ! for man's uncertain lot ! 
 
 Alas ! for all the hopes of youth, 
 
 That fade like thee — Forget-me-not ! 
 
 Alas ! for that one image fair, 
 
 With all my brightest dreams inwrought, 
 That walks beside me everywhere, 
 
 Still whispering — Forget me not ! 
 
 Memory! thou art but a sigh 
 
 For friendships dead and loves forgot ; 
 And many a cold and altered eye, 
 
 That once did say — Forget me not ! 
 
 And I must bow me to thy laws, 
 
 For — odd although it may be thought — 
 
 1 can't tell who the deuce it was 
 That gave me this Forget-me-not. 
 
 Theodore Martin, 
 
 297 
 
WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 
 
 1\ /r Y coachman, in the moonlight there, 
 
 Looks through the side-light of the door ; 
 I hear him with his brethren swear, 
 As i could do, — but only more. 
 
 Flattening his nose against the pane, 
 He envies me my brilliant lot, 
 
 Breathes on his aching fists in vain, 
 And dooms me to a place more hot. 
 
 He sees me in to supper go, 
 A silken wonder by my side. 
 
 Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row 
 Of flounces, for the door too wide. 
 
WITHOUT AND WITHIN. 
 
 He thinks how happy is my arm 
 
 'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load 
 
 And wishes me some dreadful liarm, 
 Hearing the merry corks explode. 
 
 Meanwhile I inlv curse the bore 
 
 Of hunting still the same old ccor. 
 
 And envy him, outside the door, 
 In golden quiets of the moon. 
 
 The winter wind is not so cold 
 
 As the bright smile he sees me win, 
 
 Nor the host's oldest v.-ine so old 
 As our poor gabble sour and thin. 
 
 I envy him the ungyved prance 
 
 By which his freezing feet he warms, 
 
 And drag my lady's-chains and dance 
 The galley-slave of drear)' tonus. 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA, 
 
 O, could he have my share of din, 
 And I his quiet ! — past a doubt 
 
 'Twould still be one man bored within. 
 And just another bored without. 
 
 James Russell Lowel 
 
 SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 A S I sat at the cafe I said to myself, 
 
 They may talk as they please about what 
 they call pelf, 
 They may sneer as they like about eating and 
 
 drinking, 
 Hut help it I cannot, I cannot help thinking 
 How pleasant it is to have money, 
 , heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 300 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. . 
 
 I sit at my table e?i grand seig7ietir, 
 
 And when I have done, throw a crust to the 
 
 poor ; 
 Not only the pleasure itself of good living, 
 But also the pleasure of now antl then giving : 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Tiiey may talk as they please about what they 
 
 call pelf, 
 And how one ought never to think of one's-self. 
 How pleasures of thought surpass eating and 
 
 drinking, 
 My pleasure of thought is the i)leasure of thinking 
 How pleasant it is to have money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 LE DINER. 
 
 Come along, 'tis the time, ten or more minutes 
 
 past, 
 And he who came first had to wait for the last; 
 The oysters ere this had been in and been out ; 
 While I have been sitting and thinking about 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 A clear soup with eggs; voila tout ; of the fish 
 The filets de sole are a moderate dish 
 A la Orly^ but you're for red mullet, you say ; 
 By the gods of good fare, who can question to-day 
 
 How [)leasant it is to have money, 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 After oysters, Sauterne ; then Sherry ; Champague, 
 
 Ere one bottle goes, comes another again ; 
 
 302 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 Fly up, thou bold cork, to the ceiling above, 
 And tell to our ears in the sound that we love 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 I've the simplest of palates ; absurd it may be, 
 But I almost could dine on a ponht-au-riz^ 
 Fish and soup and omelette and that — but the 
 
 deuce — 
 There were to be woodcocks, and not Char Idle 
 Riissel 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 Your Chablis is acid, away with the hock. 
 
 Give me the pure juice of the purple Modoc ; 
 303 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 St. Peray is exquisite ; but, if you please, 
 Some Burgundy just before tasting the cheese. 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money, 
 heio-h-ho ! 
 
 So pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 As for that, pass ihe bottle, and hang ihe ex- 
 pense — 
 I've seen it observed by a writer of sense. 
 That the laboring classes could scarce live a day. 
 If people like us didn't eat, drink, and pay. 
 
 So useful it is to have money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 Ow^ ought to be grateful, I quite apprehend, 
 Having dinner and supper and plenty to spend, 
 And so suppose now, while the things go away. 
 By way of a grace we all stand up and say 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 How pleasant it is to have money. 
 
 PARVENANT. 
 
 I cannot but ask, in the park and the streets, 
 When I look at the number of persons one 
 
 meets, 
 Whate'er in the world the poor devils can do 
 Whose fathers and mothers can't give them a sous. 
 So needful it is to have^ money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 I ride, and I drive, and I care not a d n, 
 
 The people look up and they ask who I am; 
 And if I should chance to run over a cad, 
 
 1 can pay for the damage, if ever so bad. 
 
 20 305 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 So useful it is to have money^ 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 It was but this winter I came up to town, 
 And already I'm gaining a sort of renown ; 
 Find my way to good houses without mucli ado, 
 Am beginning to see the nobiHty too. 
 
 So useful it is to have money, 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 So useful it is to have money. 
 
 O dear what a pity they ever should lose it, 
 Since they are the people who know how to use it ; 
 So easy, so stately, such manners, such dinners ; 
 And yet, after all, it is we are the winners. 
 
 So needful it is to have money, 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
SPECTATOR AB EXTRA. 
 
 It is all very well to be handsome and tall, 
 Which certainly makes you look well at a ball, 
 It's all very well to be clever and witty, 
 But if you are poor why it's only a pity. 
 
 So needful it is to have money, 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 There's something undoubtedly in a fine air, 
 To know how to smile and be able to stare, 
 High breeding is something, but well bred or not, 
 In the end the one question is, what have you got? 
 
 So needful it is to have money, 
 heigh-ho ! 
 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 
 And the angels in pink and the angels in blue, 
 
 In muslins and moires so lovely and new, 
 307 
 
SING HEIGH-HO. 
 
 What is it they want, and so wish you to guess, 
 But if you have money, the answer is yes. 
 
 So needful, they tell you, is money, 
 
 heigh-ho ! 
 So needful it is to have money. 
 Arthur H, C lough. 
 
 SING HEIGH-HO ! 
 
 'T~^HERE sits a bird on every tree, 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 There sits a bird on every tree, 
 And courts his love, as I do thee ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 There grows a flower on every bough, 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 
 308 
 
SING HEIGH-HO. 
 
 There grows a flower on every bough, 
 Its petals kiss — I'll show you how : 
 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 From sea to stream the sahnon roam : 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 From sea to stream the sahnon roam ; 
 Each finds a mate, and leads her home ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 The sun's a bridegroom, earth a bride, 
 
 Sing heigh-ho ! 
 They court from morn till eventide : 
 The earth shall pass, but love abide ; 
 
 Sing heigh-ho, and heigh-ho ! 
 Young maids must marry. 
 
 Rev. Charles Kingsley. 
 
BECAUSE. 
 
 Q WLET Nea !— for your lovely sake 
 I weave these rambling numbers, 
 Because I've lain an hour awake, 
 
 And can't compose my slumbers ; 
 Because your beauty's gentle light 
 
 Is round my pillow beaming, 
 And flings, I know not why, to-night, 
 
 Some witchery o'er my dreaming ! 
 
 Because we've pass'd some joyous days, 
 
 And danced some merry dances ; 
 Because we love old Beaumont's plays, 
 
 And old Froissart's ronmnces ! 
 Because whene'er I hear your words 
 
 Some pleasant feeling lingers : 
 Because I think your heart has cords 
 
 That vibrate to your fingers ! 
 
BECAUSE. 
 
 Because you've got those long, soft curls, 
 
 I've sworn should deck niy goddess; 
 Because you're not, like other girls, 
 
 All bustle, blush, and boddice ! 
 Because your eyes are deep and blue, 
 
 Your fingers long and rosy ; 
 Because a little child and you 
 
 Would make one's home so cozy ! 
 
 Because your little tiny nose 
 
 Turns up so pert and funny ; 
 Because I know you choose your beaux 
 
 More for their mirth than money ; 
 Because I think you'd rather twirl 
 
 A waltz, with me to guide you. 
 Than talk small nonsense with an earl, 
 
 And a coronet beside you ! 
 
 Because you don't object to walk, 
 And are not given to fainting ; 
 
BECAUSE. 
 
 Because you have not learned to talk 
 Of flowers, and Poonah-painting ; 
 
 Because I think you'd scarce refuse 
 To sew one on a button ; 
 
 Because I know you'd sometimes choose 
 To dine on simple mutton ! 
 
 Because I think I'm just so weak 
 
 As, some of those fine morrows, 
 To ask you if you'll let me speak 
 
 Aly story — and my sorrows ; 
 Because the rest's a simple thing, 
 
 A matter quickly over, 
 A chuich — a [priest — a sigh — a ring — 
 
 And a chaise and four to Dover 
 
 Edward Fitzgerald. 
 312 
 
NEIGHBOR NELLY. 
 
 T'M in love with neighbor Nelly, 
 
 Though I know she's only ten, 
 While, alas, I'm eight-and-forty — 
 
 And the marriedest of men ! 
 I've a wife who weighs me double, 
 
 I've three daughters all with beaux: 
 I've a son with noble whiskers, 
 
 Who at me turns up his nose — 
 
 Though a square-toes, and a fogey, 
 Still I've sunshine in my heart : 
 
 Still I'm fond of cakes and marbles, 
 Can appreciate a tart — 
 
 I can love my neighbor Nelly 
 Just as tho' I were a boy : 
 
 I could hand her nuts and apples 
 
 From my depths of corduroy. 
 313 
 
NEIGHBOR xVELLY. 
 
 She is tall, and growing taller, 
 
 She is vigorous of limb : 
 (You should see her play at cricket 
 
 With her little brother Jim.) 
 She has eyes as blue as damsons, 
 
 She has pounds of auburn curls, 
 She regrets the game of leapfrog 
 
 Is prohibited to girls. 
 
 I adore my neighbor Nelly, 
 
 1 invite her in to tea : 
 And I let her nurse the baby — 
 
 All her pretty ways to see. 
 Such a darling bud of woman, 
 
 Yet remote from any teens, — 
 I have learnt from neighbor Nelly 
 
 What the girl's doll-instinct means. 
 
 Oh ! to see her with the baby ! 
 
 He adores her more than 1, — 
 314 
 
NEIGHBOR NELLY. 
 
 How she choruses his crowing, — 
 
 How she hushes every cry ! 
 How she loves to pit his dimples 
 
 With her light forefinger deep. 
 How she boasts to me in triumph 
 
 o 
 
 When she's got him off to sleep ! 
 
 We must part, my neighbor Nelly, 
 
 P'or the summers quickly flee ; 
 And your middle-aged admirer 
 
 Must supplanted quickly be. 
 Yet as jealous as a mother, — 
 
 A distemper'd canker'd churl, 
 I look vainly for the setting 
 
 To be worthy such a pearl. 
 
 Robert B. Brough. 
 31S 
 
LETTICE WHITE. 
 
 "IV /f Y neighbor White ; we met to-day, 
 He klways had a cheerful way, 
 As if he breathed at ease ; 
 My neighbour White lives down the glade, 
 And I live higher, in the shade 
 Of my old walnut-trees. 
 
 So many lads and lasses small, ' 
 
 To feed them all, to clothe them all, 
 
 Must surely tax his wit ; 
 I see his thatch when I look out, 
 His branching roses creep about 
 
 And vines half smother it. 
 
 There white-haired urchins climb his eaves, 
 And little watch-fires heap with leaves. 
 
 And milky filberts hoard ; 
 
 316 
 
LETTICE WHITE. 
 
 And there his oldest daughter stands 
 With downcast e3^es and skilful hands 
 Before her ironing-board. 
 
 She comforts all her mother's days, 
 And with her sweet obedient ways 
 
 She makes her labors light ; 
 So sweet to hear, so fair to see ! 
 Oh, she is much too good for me, 
 
 That lovely Lettice White! 
 
 'Tis hard to feel one's self a fool ! 
 With that same lass I went to school; 
 
 I then was great and wise ; 
 She read upon an easier book. 
 And I, — I never cared to look 
 
 Into her shy blue eyes. 
 
 And now I know they must be there. 
 
 Sweet eyes, behind those lashes fair 
 
 That will not raise their rim : 
 317 
 
LETTICE WHITE. 
 
 If maids be shy, he cures who can, 
 But if a man be shy — a man — 
 
 Why then, the worse for him ! 
 
 My mother cries, " For such a lad 
 A wife is easy to be had 
 
 And always to be found ; 
 A finer scholar scarce can be, 
 And for a foot and leg," says she, 
 
 " He beats the country round ! " 
 
 " My handsome boy must stoop his head 
 To clear her door whom he would wed." 
 
 Weak praise, but fondly sung ! 
 " O mother ! scholars sometimes fail, 
 And what can foot and leg avail 
 
 To him that wants a tongue ! " 
 
 When by her ironing-board I sit 
 Her little sisters round me flit. 
 
 And bring me forth their store ; 
 
 3xS 
 
LETTICE WHITE. 
 
 Dark cluster grapes of dusty blue, 
 And small sweet apples bright of hue, 
 And crimson to the core. 
 
 But she abideth silent, fair, 
 All shaded by her flaxen hair, 
 
 The blushes come and go ; 
 I look, and I no more can speak 
 Than the red sun that on her cheek 
 
 Smiles as he lieth low. 
 
 Sometimes the roses by the latch 
 Or scarlet vine-leaves from her thatch 
 
 Come sailing down like birds ; 
 When from their drifts her board I clear, 
 She thanks me, but I scarce can hear 
 
 The shyly uttered words. 
 
 Oft have I wooed sweet Lettice White 
 By daylight and by candlelight 
 
 When we two were apart. 
 
MADAME LA MARQUISE 
 
 Some better day come on apace, 
 And let me tell her face to face, 
 
 *' Maiden, thou hast my heart ! " 
 
 How gently rock yon poplars high 
 Against the reach of primrose sky 
 
 With heaven's pale candles stored ! 
 She sees them all, sweet Lettice White ; 
 I'll e'en go sit again to-night 
 
 Beside her ironing-board. 
 
 Jean Ingelow. 
 
 MADAME LA MARQUISE. 
 
 *■ I ""HE folds of her wine-dark violet dress 
 
 Glow over the sofa, fall on fall. 
 As she sits in the air of her loveliness, 
 With a smile for each and for all. 
 
MADAME LA MARQUISE. 
 
 Half of her exquisite face in the shade 
 
 Which o'er it the screen in her soft hand flings; 
 
 Through the gloom glows her hair in its odorous 
 braid ; 
 In the firelight are sparkling her rings. 
 
 As she leans, — the slow smile half shut up in her 
 eyes 
 
 Beams the sleej)}', long, silk-soft lashes beneath ; 
 Through her crimson lips, stirred by her faint replies, 
 
 Breaks one gleam of her pearl-white teeth. 
 
 As she leans, — where your e)'e, by her beauty 
 subdued, 
 Droops — from under warm fringes of broidery 
 white, 
 The slightest of feet, silken slippered, protrude 
 For one moment, then slip out of sight. 
 
MADAME LA MARQUISE, 
 
 As 1 bend o'er her bosom to tell her the nev/s, 
 The faint scent of her hair, the approach of hei 
 cheek, 
 The vague warmth of her breaih, all my senses 
 suffuse 
 With herself; and I tremble to speak. 
 
 So she sits in the curtained luxuiious light 
 Of that room with its porcelain, and pictures, 
 and flowers, 
 When the dark day's half done, and the show flutters 
 white 
 Past the windows in feathery showers. 
 
 All without is so cold, — 'neath the low, leaden sky ! 
 
 Down the bald empty street, like a ghost, the 
 gendarme 
 Stalks surly ; a distant carriage hums by ; — 
 
 All within is so bright and so warm ! 
 
 322 
 
MADAME LA MARQUJSR, 
 
 But she drives after iioon ; — then's the time to 
 behold her, 
 With lier fair face, half hid, like a ripe peeping 
 rose, 
 'Neath the veil, — o'er the velvets and furs which en- 
 fold lier, — 
 Leaning back with a qneenly repose. 
 
 As she glides up the sunlight, you'd say she was 
 made 
 
 To loll back in a carriage all day with a smile; 
 And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade 
 
 Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while. 
 
 Could we find out her heart throudi that velvet 
 
 o 
 
 and lace ! 
 Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress? 
 She will sliow us her shoulder, her bosom, her face; 
 
 But what the heart's like, we must guess. 
 
 323 
 
IRISH EYES. 
 
 With live women and men to be found in the 
 world — ■ 
 (Live with sorrow and sin — live with pain and 
 with passion) — 
 Who could live with a doll, though its locks should 
 be curled, 
 And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion ? 
 
 'Tis so fair ! Would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood ? 
 
 Will it cry if I hurt it ? or scold if I kiss ? 
 Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ? 
 
 ... Is it worth while to guess at all this ? 
 
 Owen Meredith. 
 
 IRISH EYES. 
 
 T RISH eyes ! Irish eyes ! 
 
 Eyes that most of all can move me 1 
 Lift one look 
 From my book, 
 
IRISH EYES. 
 
 Through your lashes dark, and prove me 
 In my worship, oh how wise ' 
 
 Other orbs, be content ! 
 
 In your honor, not dispraisal — 
 Most I prize 
 Irish eyes, 
 Since were not your ebon, hazel, 
 Violet — all to light them lent? 
 
 Then no mischief, merry eyes ! 
 
 Stars of thought, no jealous fancies 
 Can I err 
 To prefer 
 This sweet union of your glances, 
 Sparkling, darkling Irish eyes ? 
 
 A. Perceval Graves. 
 
THE PROUDEST LADY. 
 
 'T~^HE Queen is proud on her throne, 
 
 And proud are her maids so fine ; 
 But the proudest lady that ever was known 
 
 Is this Httle lady of mine. 
 And oh ! she flouts me, she flouts me ! 
 And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me ! 
 Though I drop on my kneeSj and sue for grace, 
 And beg and beseech, with the saddest face, 
 
 Still ever the same she doubts me. 
 
 She is seven by the calendar, 
 
 A lily's almost as tall ; 
 But oh ! this little lady's by far 
 
 The proudest lady of all ! 
 It's her sport and pleasure to flout me I 
 To spurn and scorn and scout me ! 
 
 But ah ! I've a notion it's naught but play, 
 
 m6 
 
ROSE SONG. 
 
 And that, say what she will and feign what she may- 
 She can't well do without me ! 
 
 For at times, like a pleasant tune, 
 
 A sweeter mood o'ertake? her ; 
 Oh ! then she's sunny as skies of June, 
 
 And all her pride forsakes her. 
 Oh ! she dances round me so fairly ! 
 Oh ! her laugh rings out so rarely ! 
 Oh ! she coaxes, and nestles, and peers, and pries, 
 In my puzzled face with her two great eyes, 
 
 And owns she loves me dearly. 
 
 Thomas \Vestwood. 
 
 ROSE SONG. 
 
 QUNNY breadth of roses, 
 Roses white and red, 
 Rosy bud and rose leaf 
 From the blossom shed! 
 
ROSE SONG. 
 
 Goes my darling flying 
 All the garden through ; 
 
 Laughing she eludes me, 
 Laughing I pursue. 
 
 Now to pluck the rosebud, 
 
 Now to pluck the rose 
 (Hand a sweeter blossom), 
 
 Stopping as she goes : 
 What but this contents her^ 
 
 Laughing in her flight, 
 Pelting with the red rose, 
 
 Pelting with the white. 
 
 Roses round me flying, 
 
 Roses in my hair, 
 
 I to snatch them trying : 
 
 Darling, have a care ! 
 328 
 
MY OLD COAT. 
 
 Lips are so like flowers, 
 
 I might snatch at those, 
 Redder than the rose leaves, 
 
 Sweeter than the rose. 
 
 William Sawyer. 
 
 MY OLD COAT. 
 
 " I ^HIS old velvet coat has grown queer I admit, 
 And changed is the color and loose is the fit ; 
 Though to beauty it certainly cannot aspire, 
 'Tis a cozy old coat for a seat by the fire. 
 
 II. 
 
 When I first put it on, it was awfully swell ; 
 
 I went to a picnic, met Lucy Lepel, 
 
 Made a hole in the heart of that sweet little girl, 
 
 And disjointed the nose of her lover, the earl. 
 329 
 
MY OLD COAT. 
 
 III. 
 
 We rambled away o'er the moorland together ; 
 My coat was bright purple, and so. was the heather, 
 And so was the sunset that blazed in the west, 
 As Lucy's fair tresses were laid on njy breast. 
 
 IV. 
 
 We plighted our troth 'neath that sunset aflame, 
 But Lucy returned to her earl all the same ; 
 She's a grandmamma now, and is going down-hill. 
 But my old velvet coat is a friend to me still. 
 
 V. 
 
 It was built by a tailor of mighty renown, 
 Whose art is no longer the talk of the town : 
 A magical picture my memory weaves 
 When 1 thrust my tired arms through it? easy old 
 sleeves. 
 
AJV OLD COAT, 
 
 VI. 
 
 I see in my fire, through the smoke of my pipe, 
 Sweet maidens of old that are long over-ripe, 
 And a troop of old cronies, right gay cavaliers, 
 Whose guineas paid well for champagne at Watier's. 
 
 VII. 
 
 A strong generation, who drank, fought, and kissed, 
 Whose hands never trembled, whose shots never 
 
 missed, 
 Who lived a quick life, for their pulses beat high — 
 We remember them well, sir, my old coat and I. 
 
 vin. 
 
 Ah, gone is the age of wild doings at court, 
 
 Rotten boroughs, knee-breeches, hair-triggers, and 
 
 port ; 
 
 Still I've got a magnum to moisten my throat, 
 
 And I'll drink to the past in my tattered old coat. 
 
 Mortimer Collins. 
 331 
 
L 
 
 AD CHLOEN, M.A. 
 
 (Fresh from her Cambridge Examination.) 
 
 ADY, very fair are you, 
 
 And your eyes are very blue, 
 And your hose ; 
 And your brow is like the snow ; 
 And die various things you know. 
 Goodness knows. 
 
 And the rose flush on your cheek, 
 And your algebra and Greek 
 
 Perfect are ; 
 And that loving lustrous eye 
 Recognizes in the sky 
 
 Every star. 
 
 You have poutuig piquant lips, 
 You can doubtless an eclipse 
 Calculate ; 
 
CHLOE, M,A, 
 
 But for your coerulean hue, 
 I had certainly from you 
 Met my fate. 
 
 If by an arrangement dual 
 
 I were Adams mixed with Whewell, 
 
 Then some day 
 I, as wooer, perhaps might come 
 To so sweet an Artium 
 
 Magistra. 
 
 Mortimer Collins. 
 
 CHLOE, M.A. 
 
 Ad antantcvt suunt. 
 
 i^^ARELESS rhymer! it is true 
 That my favourite color's blue 
 But am I 
 
 333 
 
CHLOE, MM. 
 
 To be made a victim, sir, 
 If to puddings I prefer 
 Cambridge n ! 
 
 If with giddier girls I play 
 Croquet through the summer day 
 
 On the turf, 
 Then at night ('tis no great boon) 
 Let me study how the moon 
 
 Sways the surf. 
 
 Tennyson's idyllic verse 
 
 Surely suits me none the worse 
 
 If I seek 
 Old SiciHan birds and bees — 
 Music of sweet Sophocles — 
 
 Golden Greek. 
 
 You have said my eyes are blue ; 
 There may be a fairer hue, 
 Perhaps, — and yet 
 
 334 
 
A.V INTERLUDE. 
 
 It is sarely not a sin 
 
 If I keep my secrets in 
 
 Violet. 
 
 Mortimer Collins. 
 
 AN INTERLUDE. 
 
 T N the greenest growth of the May-time, 
 
 I rode where the woods were wet, 
 Between the dawn and the day-time ; 
 The spring was glad that we met. 
 
 There was something the season wanted. 
 
 Though the ways and the woods binelt sweet 
 The breath at your lips that panted, 
 
 The pulse of the grass at your feet. 
 
 You came, and the sun came after, 
 And the green grew golden above ; 
 
 And the May-flowers lightened with laughter, 
 And the meadow-sweet shook with love. 
 
 335 
 
AN INTERLUDE. 
 
 Your feet in the full-grown grasses 
 Moved soft as a weak wind blows ; 
 
 You passed me as April passes, 
 With face made out of a rose. 
 
 By the stream where the stems were slender. 
 Your light foot paused at the sedge ; 
 
 It might be to watch the tender 
 
 Light leaves in the spring-time hedge, 
 
 On boughs that the sweet month blanches 
 
 With flowery frost of May ; 
 It might be a bird in the branches. 
 
 It might be a thorn in the way. 
 
 T waited to watch you linger. 
 
 With foot drawn back from the dew, 
 
 Till a sunbeam straight like a finger 
 
 'Struck sharp through the leaves at you. 
 336 
 
AN INTERLUDE. 
 
 And a bird overhead sang ''Follow," 
 And a bird to the right sang " Here," 
 
 And the arch of the leaves was hollow, 
 And the meaning of May was clear. 
 
 I saw where the sun's hand pointed, 
 I knew what the bird's note said ; 
 
 By the dawn and the dewfall anointed. 
 
 You were queen by the gold on your head. 
 
 As the glimpse of a burnt-out ember 
 
 Recalls a regret of the sun, 
 I remember, forget, and remember 
 
 What love saw done and undone. 
 
 I remember the way we parted. 
 
 The day and the way we met ; 
 You hoped we were both broken-hearted, 
 
 And knew we should both forget. 
 
 «a 33r 
 
AN INTERLUDE. 
 
 And May with her world in flower 
 Seemed still to murmur and smile 
 
 As you murmured and smiled for an hour; 
 I saw you twice at the stile. 
 
 A hand like a white-wood blossom 
 You lifted, and waved and passed, 
 
 With head hung down to the bosom, 
 And pale, as it seemed, to the last. 
 
 And the best and the worst of this is, 
 
 That neither is most to blame, 
 If you've forgotton my kisses, 
 
 And I've forgotten your name. 
 
 Algernon Charles Swinburne. 
 338 
 
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA. 
 
 "^ I ^HE cunning hand that carved this face, 
 
 A little helmeted Minerva — 
 Tlie hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought, 
 Had lost its subtle skill and fervor. 
 
 Who was he ? Was he glad or sad ? 
 
 Who knew to carve in such a fashion ? 
 Perchance he shaped this dainty head 
 
 For some brown girl that scorned his passion. 
 
 But he is dust ; we may not know 
 
 His happy or unhappy story : 
 Nameless and dead these thousand years, 
 
 His work outlives him — there's his glory! 
 
 Both man and jewel lay in earth 
 
 Beneath a lava-buried city ; 
 The thousand summers came and went, 
 
 With neither haste, nor hate, nor pity, 
 
 339 
 
ON AN INTAGLIO. 
 
 The years wiped out the man, but left 
 
 The jewel fresh as any blossom. 
 Till some Visconti dug it up, 
 
 To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom. 
 
 O Roman brother ! See how Time 
 
 Your gracious handiwork has guarded ; 
 
 See how your loving, patient art 
 Has come, at last, to be rewarded. 
 
 Who would not suffer slights of men. 
 And pangs of hopeless passion also, 
 
 To have his carven agate-stone 
 On such a bosom rise and fall so ! 
 
 Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 
 
WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO 
 LITTLE RED RIDING-HOOD. 
 
 XT PONDERING maiden, so puzzled and fair, 
 Why dost thou murmur and ponder and 
 stare ? 
 " Why are thy eyeHds so open and wild ? " — 
 Only the better to see with, my child ! 
 Only the better and clearer to view 
 Cheeks that are rosy, and eyes that are blue. 
 
 Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms 
 Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, 
 Swaying so wickedly? — are they misplaced, 
 Clasping or shielding some delicate waist : 
 Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear 
 Only the better protect you, my dear ! 
 
 Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, 
 
 Why do I press your small hand when we meet ? 
 341 
 
TO AN UTTER STRANGER. 
 
 Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, 
 Why did I sigh, and why didn't I speak ? 
 Why, well : you see — if the truth must appear— 
 I'u) not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear ! 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
 TO AN UTTER STRANGER. 
 
 I 
 
 T cannot be said I've no love 
 
 Because I've no sighs ; 
 
 Believe me not utterly blind. 
 
 For slighting your eyes. 
 No violet, — purple, not red, — 
 
 Can rival their hue ; 
 Maria's are hazel you know — 
 
 Well, hazel will do. 
 I will not deny that your hair 
 
 Is black as the wings 
 
 Of ravens — I'm tired of ravens— 
 342 
 
TO AN UTTER STRANGER. 
 
 The troublesome things. 
 Maria's is certainly auburn, 
 
 Whatever you say — 
 Rich color that runs little risk 
 
 Of changing to gray. 
 And though it appears that her lips 
 
 Are not " stung by bees," 
 The kisses they'll possibly give 
 
 Will equally please. 
 I cannot pretend to assert 
 
 Her teeth to be pearls — 
 Her locks to be hyacinth leaves — 
 
 They're curls — simply curls. 
 And down where they nestle below 
 
 Her unswanlike neck, 
 A bosom that's not alabaster 
 
 They happily deck. 
 The light heart that's dancing beneath 
 
 That breast, gives me life; 
 
 343 
 
A BEGGING LETTER. 
 
 The lips utter merely one word — 
 
 Sweet sentiment — wife. 
 It cannot be said I've no heart 
 
 Because it won't break — 
 Life or soul, because 1 decline 
 
 To die for your sake. 
 
 E. Y. Blanchard. 
 
 A BEGGING LETTER. 
 
 '\ /r Y DEAR, To-morrow 
 
 I can think 
 
 Of little else to do, 
 And so I take my pen and ink 
 
 And drop a line to you. 
 1 own that I am ill at ease 
 
 Respecting you to-day ; 
 Do let me have an answer, please; 
 
 Repondez, s'il vous plait. 
 
 344 
 
A BEGGING LETTER. 
 
 I long to like you very much, 
 
 But that will all depend 
 On whether you "behave as such" 
 
 (I mean, dear, as a friend). 
 I'll set you quite an easy task 
 
 At which you are an fait ; 
 You'll come and bring me what I ask ? 
 
 Repondez, s'il vous plait. 
 
 Be sure to recollect your purse, 
 
 For, be it understood, 
 Though money-matters might be worse, 
 
 They're very far from good. 
 So, if you have a little gold 
 
 You care to give away 
 
 But am I growing over-bold ? 
 
 Repondez, s'il vous plait. 
 
 A. Uttle — ^just a little — fame 
 You must contrive to bring ; 
 
 345 
 
A BEGGING LETTER. 
 
 Because I think a poet's name 
 
 Would be a pleasant thing. 
 Perhaps, though, as I've scarcely got 
 
 A single claim to lay 
 To such a gift, you'd rather not ; 
 
 Repondez, s'il vous plait. 
 
 Well, well, To-morrow, you may strike 
 
 A line through what's above : 
 And bring me folks that I can like. 
 
 And folks that 1 can love. 
 A warmer heart; a quicker brain, 
 
 I'll ask for, if I may : 
 To-morrow, shall I ask in vain ? 
 
 Repondez, s'il vous plait. 
 
 Henry S. Leigh, 
 
 346 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE. 
 
 T T ERE on my desk it lies, 
 
 Here as the daylight dies, 
 One small glove just her size — 
 
 Six and a quarter ; 
 Pearl-gray, a color neat, 
 Deux boutons all complete, 
 Faint-scented, soft and sweet ; 
 Could glove be smarter? 
 
 Can I the day forget, 
 Years ago, when the [)et 
 Gave it me ? — where we met 
 
 Still I remember ; 
 Then 'twas the summer-time; 
 Now as I write this rhyme 
 Children love pantomime — 
 
 'Tis in December. 
 
THE ROMANCE OF A GLOVE, 
 
 Fancy my boyish bliss 
 
 Then when she gave me this, 
 
 And how the frequent kiss 
 
 Crumpled its fingers ; 
 Then she was fair and kind, 
 Now, when I've changed my mind. 
 Still some scent undefined 
 
 On the glove lingers. 
 
 Though she's a matron sage. 
 Yet I have kept the gage ; 
 While, as I pen this page, 
 
 Still comes a goddess, 
 Her eldest daughter, fair. 
 With the same eyes and hair : 
 Happy the arm, I swear, 
 
 That clasps her bodice. 
 
 Heaven grant her fate be bright, 
 
 And her step ever light 
 348 
 
PET'S PUNISHMENT. 
 
 As it will be to-night, 
 
 First in the dances. 
 Why did her mother prove 
 False when I dared to love ? 
 Zounds ! I shall burn the glove ! 
 
 This my romance is. 
 
 H. Saville Clarke, 
 
 PET'S PUNISHMENT. 
 
 /^^H, if my love offended me, 
 
 And we had words together, 
 To show her I would master be, 
 I'd whip her with a feather ! 
 
 'f then she, like a naughty girl, 
 Would tyranny declare it, 
 \ give my pet a cross of pearl, 
 And make her always bear it. 
 
 349 
 
LITTLE GERTY. 
 
 If still she tried to sulk and sigh, 
 
 And threw away my posies, 
 I'd catch my darling on the sly. 
 
 And smother her with roses ! 
 
 But should she clench her dimpled fists, 
 
 Or contradict her betters, 
 I'd manacle her tiny wrists 
 
 With dainty golden fetters. 
 
 And if she dared her lips to pout — 
 Like many pert young misses — 
 
 I'd wind my arm her waist about, 
 And punish her — with kisses ! 
 
 J. AsHBY Sterry. 
 
 I 
 
 LITTLE GERTY. 
 
 'VE a sweetheart blithe and gay, 
 Fairer far than fabled fay, 
 Light and airy. 
 
 3SO 
 
LITTLE GERTY. 
 
 She is bright and debonnaire, 
 Softly falls her golden hair ; 
 I all other loves forswear : 
 Little f.airy. 
 
 Little Gerty swears she's true, 
 Gives me kisses not a few ; 
 
 Do I doubt her? 
 Hearts are often bought and sold; 
 Is it glitter, is it gold ? 
 Half my grief could not be told 
 
 Were I without her. 
 
 Gerty scolds me if I roam, 
 Wonders what I want from home, 
 
 With sly glances — 
 Looks that seem to me to say, 
 " I have waited all the day ; 
 You were very wrong to stray, 
 
 Naughty Francis." 
 
 351 
 
LITTLE GERTY. 
 
 If I whisper, " We must part," 
 Gerty, sighing, breaks her heart ; 
 
 Awkward, very. 
 When I say that I'll remain. 
 All her smiles return again, 
 Like warm sunshine after rain ; 
 
 We are merry. 
 
 If my sweetheart knows her mind, 
 Love is mad as well as blind. 
 
 Little Gerty 
 Says she means to marry me ; 
 She is only six, you see ; 
 I — alas, that it should be ! — 
 
 Am two-and-thirty. 
 
 Frank. Stainforth. 
 
WOMAN. 
 
 A LL honor to woman, the sweetheart, the wife, 
 The delight of our firesides by night and 
 by day, 
 Who never does anything wrong in her hfe, 
 Except when permitted to have her own way. 
 FiTZ Greene Halleck. 
 
 THE TOPER'S APOLOGY. 
 
 T 'M often ask'd by plodding souls, 
 And men of crafty tongue, 
 What joy I take in draining bowls, 
 
 And tippling all night long. 
 Now, tho' these cautious knaves I scorn, 
 
 For once I'll not disdain 
 To tell them why I sit till morn. 
 And fill my glass again : 
 
 353 
 
THE TOPER'S APOLOGY. 
 
 'Tis by the glow my bumper gives 
 
 Life's picture's mellow made; 
 The fading light then brightly lives, 
 
 And softly sinks the shade ; 
 Some haj)])ier tint still rises there 
 
 With every drop I drain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 My Muse, too, when her wings are dry 
 
 No frolic flight will take ; 
 But round a bowl she'll dip and fly, 
 
 Like swallows round a lake. 
 Then if the nymph will have her share 
 
 Before she'll bless her swain — 
 Why that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 In life I've run?- all changes too, — 
 Run every ])leasure down, — 
 
 354 
 
THE TOPER'S APOLOGY. 
 
 Tried all extremes of fancy through, 
 And hved witli half the town ; 
 
 For nie there's nothing new or rare, 
 Till wine deceives my brain — 
 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Then, many a lad I liked is dead, 
 
 And many a lass grown old ; 
 And as the lesson strikes my head, 
 
 My weary heart grows cold. 
 But wine, awhile, drives off despair, 
 
 Nay, bids a hope remain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Then, hipp'd and vex'd at England's state 
 
 In these convulsive days, 
 1 can't endure the ruin'd fate 
 
 My sober eye surveys ; 
 
 355 
 
THE TOPER'S APOLOGY. 
 
 But, 'midst the bottle's dazzling glare, 
 I see the gloom less plain — 
 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 I find too when I stint my glass, 
 
 And sit with sober air, 
 I'm prosed by some dull reasoning ass, 
 
 Who treads the path of care ; 
 Or, harder tax'd, I'm forced to bear 
 
 Some coxcomb's fribbling strain — • 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Nay, don't we see Love's fetters, too, 
 With different holds entwine ? 
 
 While nought but death can some undoj 
 There's soiue give way to wine, 
 
 With me the liditer head I wear 
 
 The lighter hangs the chain- 
 356 
 
MISS ELLEN TREE. 
 
 And that I think' s a reason fair 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 And now I'll tell, to end my song, 
 
 At what I most repine ; 
 This cursed war, or right or wrong, 
 
 Is war against all wine ; 
 Nay, Port, they say, will soon be rare 
 
 As juice of France or Spain — 
 And that I think's a reason fair 
 
 To fill my glass again. 
 
 Captain Charles Morris. 
 
 ON THE DISTINGUISHED SINGER, MISS 
 ELEEN TREE. 
 
 o 
 
 N this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings. 
 The Tree will return her as good as she 
 
 brings. 
 
 Henry Luttrell. 
 
 357 
 
LOVE IN A COTTAGE. 
 
 '' I ^HEY may talk of love in a cottage, 
 And bowers of trellised vine, 
 Of nature bewitchingly simple, 
 And' milkmaids half divine ; 
 They may talk of the pleasure of sleeping 
 
 In the shade of a spreading tree, 
 And a walk in the fields at morning, 
 By the side of a footstep free ! 
 
 True love is at home on a carpet, 
 
 And mightily likes his ease ; 
 And true love has an eye for a dinner, 
 
 And starves beneath shady trees. 
 His wing is the fan of a lady, 
 
 His foot's an invisible thing. 
 And his arrow is tipped with a jewel, 
 
 And shot from a silver .string. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 358 
 
TOUJOURS AMOUR. 
 
 "pRITHEE tell me, Dimple-Chin, 
 At what acre doth love besriii ? 
 
 o o 
 
 Your blue eyes have scarcely seen 
 Summers three, my fairy queen, 
 But a miracle of sweets. 
 Soft approaches, sly retreats. 
 Show the little archer there, 
 Hidden in your pretty hair ; 
 When didst learn a heart to win ? 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin ! 
 
 " Oh ! " the rosy lips reply, 
 "I can't tell you if I try. 
 'Tis so long I cau t remember : 
 Ask some younger lass than 1 ! " 
 
 Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, 
 
 Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
 
 When does hoary Love expire, 
 
 359 
 
STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY. 
 
 "When do frosts put out the fire ? 
 Can its embers burn below 
 All that chill December snow ? 
 Care you still soft hands to press, 
 Bonny heads to smooth and bless ? 
 VVhen does Love give up the chase ? 
 Tell, O tell me. Grizzled- Face ? 
 
 ^' Ah ! " the wise old lips reply, 
 "Youth may pass and strength may die; 
 But of Love I can'.t foretoken : 
 Ask some older sage tlian 1 ! " 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY. 
 
 IT'S a sinsjular flict that whenever I order 
 My goblet of Guinnes or bumper of Bass, 
 Out of ten or a dozen that sport round the border^ 
 Some fly turns a summersault into my glass. 
 
STANZAS TO AN INTOXICATED FLY. 
 
 Ah, believe me, fond fl)', 'tis excessively sinful^ 
 This habit which knocks even blue-bottles up ; 
 
 Just remember what Cassio, on getting a skinful, 
 Remark'd about every inordinate cup. 
 
 Pray where is your home, and O, how will you 
 get there, 
 And what will your wife and your family think ? 
 Pray, now, shall you venture to show the whole 
 set there 
 That paterfamilias is given to drink ? 
 
 O think of the moment when conscience re- 
 turning 
 Shall put the brief pleasures of Bacchus to 
 flight ; 
 
 When the tongue shall be parch'd and the brow 
 
 shall be burning. 
 
 And most of to-morrow shall taste of to-night. 
 361 
 
B URNIIA M-BEE CUES. 
 
 For the toast shall be tough and the tea shall 
 be bitter, 
 
 And even through breakfast this thought shall 
 intrude : 
 
 That a little pale brandy and seltzer were fitter 
 
 For such an occasion than animal food. 
 
 Henry S. Leigh. 
 
 BURNHAM-BEECHES. 
 
 A BARD, dear muse, unapt to sing, 
 Your friendly aid beseeches. 
 Help me to touch the lyric string, 
 In praise of Burnham-beeches. 
 
 What tho' my tributary lines 
 
 Be less like Pope's than Creech's, 
 
 The theme, if not the poet, shines, 
 
 So bright are Burnham-beeches. 
 362 
 
B URNHAM-BEE CHES. 
 
 O'er many a dell and upland walk, 
 
 Their sylvan beauty reaches, 
 Of Birnam-wood let Scotland talk, 
 
 While we've our Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Oft do I linger, oft return, 
 
 (Say, who my taste impeaches) 
 
 Where holly, juniper, and fern. 
 Spring up round Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Tho' deep embower'd their shades among, 
 The owl at midnight screeches. 
 
 Birds of far merrier, sweeter song, 
 Enliven Burnham-beeches. 
 
 If " sermons be in stones," I'll bet 
 
 Our vicar, when he preaches, 
 
 He'd find it easier far to get 
 
 A hint from Burnham-beeches. 
 363 
 
B URNHAM-BEE CHES. 
 
 Their glossy rind here winter stains, 
 Here the hot solstice bleaches. 
 
 Bow, stubborn oaks ! bow, graceful planes, 
 Ye match not Burnhani-beeches. 
 
 Gardens may boast a tempting show 
 Of nectarines, grapes, and peaches. 
 
 But daintiest truffles lurk below 
 The boughs of Burnhani-beeches. 
 
 Poets and painters, hither hie. 
 Here ample room for each is 
 
 With pencil and with pen to try 
 His hand at Burnham-beeches. 
 
 When monks, by holy Church well schooled, 
 
 Were lawyers, statesmen, leeches. 
 Cured souls and bodies, judged or ruled, 
 
 Then flourished Burnham beeches, 
 
 364 
 
B URNHAM-BEE CHES. 
 
 Skirting the convent's walls of yore, 
 
 As yonder ruin teaches. 
 But shaven crown and cowl no more 
 
 Shall darken Burnhani-beeches. 
 
 Here bards have mused, here lovers true 
 Have dealt in softest speeches, 
 
 While suns declined, and, ])arting, threw 
 Their gold o'er Burnham-beeches. 
 
 O ne'er may woodman's axe resound, 
 
 Nor tempest, making breaches 
 In the sweet shade that cools the ground 
 
 Beneath our Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Hold ! tho' I'd fain be jingling on, 
 My power no further reaches — 
 
 Again that rhyme ? enough — I've done, 
 
 Farewell to Burnham-beeches. 
 
 Henry Luttrell. 
 365 
 
LINES LEFT AT MR. THEODORE HOOK'S 
 HOUSE IN JUNE, 1834. 
 
 A' 
 
 S Dick and I 
 Were a-sailing by 
 At Fulham bridge, I cock'd my eye, 
 And says I, " Add-zooks ! 
 There's Theodore Hook's, 
 Whose Sayings and Doings make such pretty books. 
 
 " I wonder," says I, 
 
 Still keeping my eye 
 On the house, "if he's in — I should like to try;" 
 
 With his oar on his knee. 
 
 Says Dick, says he, 
 "Father, suppose you land and see!" 
 
 "What land and sea^'* 
 
 Says I to he, 
 
 " Together ! why Dick, why how can that be ? " 
 366 
 
LINES LEFT AT THEODORE HOOK'S HOUSE. 
 
 And my comical son, 
 Who is tond of fun. 
 I thought would have split his sides at the pun. 
 
 So we rows to shore, 
 
 And knocks at the door — 
 When William, a man I've seen often before, 
 
 Makes answer and says, 
 
 " Master's gone in a chaise 
 Call'd a ho7nnilms, drawn by a couple of bays." 
 
 So I says then, 
 
 "Just lend me a pen:" 
 
 " I will, sir," says William, politest of men ; 
 
 So having no card, these poetical brayings, 
 
 Are the record I leave of my doings and 
 
 sayings. 
 
 Richard H. Barham. 
 367 
 
UP THE AISLE— NELL LATINE'S WED- 
 DING. 
 
 " I ^AKE my cloak — and now fix my veil, Jen- 
 ny ;— 
 
 How silly to cover one's face ! 
 I might as well be an old woman ; 
 
 But then there's one comfort — it's lace. 
 Well, what has become of those ushers ! 
 
 Oh, Pa ! have you got my bouquet ? — 
 I'll freeze standing here in the lobby — 
 
 Why doesn't the organist play 1 — 
 They've started at last — what a bustle !- — 
 
 Stop. Pa ! — they're not far enough — wait ! 
 One minute more — now! — do keep step, Pa! 
 
 There, drop my trail, Jane ! — is it straight ? 
 I hope I look timid, and shrinking ; 
 
 The church must be perfectly full — 
 Good gracious ! now dojit walk so fast, ' Pa ! — 
 
 3^3 
 
UP THE AISLE. 
 
 He don't seem to think that trains pull. 
 The chancel at last — mind the step, Pa ! — 
 
 I don't feel embarrassed at all. — 
 But, my! what's the minister saying? 
 
 Oh, I know ; that part 'bout Saint Paul. 
 I hope my position is graceful ; 
 
 How awkwardly Nelly Dane stood ! — 
 " Not lawfully be joined together — 
 
 Now speak" — as if any one would! — 
 Oh, dear ! now it's my turn to answer — 
 
 I do wish that Pa would stand still. 
 "Serve him, love, honor, and keep him" — 
 
 How sweetly he says it — I will. 
 Where's Pa ? — there, I knew he'd forget it, 
 
 When the time came to give me away — 
 "I, Helena, take thee — love — cherish — 
 
 And"— well, I can't help it— " obey." 
 Here, Maud, take my bouquet — don't drop it ! 
 
 I hope Charley's not lost the ring; 
 
 24 369 
 
UP THE AISLE. 
 
 Just like him ! — no ! — goodness, how heavy ! 
 
 It's really an elegant thing. 
 It's a shame to kneel down in white satin — 
 
 And the flounce, real old lace — but I must ; 
 I hope that they've got a clean cushion, 
 
 They're usually covered with dust. 
 All over — ah! thanks! — now, don't fuss, Pa!— 
 
 Just throw back my veil, Charley — there — 
 Oh, bother! why couldn't he kiss me 
 
 Without mussing up all my hair ! — 
 Your arm, Charley, there goes the organ — 
 
 Who'd think there would be such a crowd ; 
 Oh, I mustn't look round, I'd forgotten 
 
 See, Charley, who was it that bowed 
 Why — it's Nelly Allaire with her husband — 
 
 She's awfully jealous, I know ; 
 'Most all of my things were imported, 
 
 And she had a home-made trousseau. 
 And there's Annie Wheeler — Kate Hermon,— 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 I didn't expect her at all, — 
 
 If she's not in that same old blue satin 
 She wore at the Charity Ball ! 
 
 Is that Fanny Wade?— Edidi Pearton — 
 And Emma, and Jo — all the girls? 
 
 I knew that they'd not miss my wedding— 
 I hoj^e they'll all notice my pearls. 
 
 Is the carriage there ? — give me my cloak, Jane- 
 Don' t get it all over my veil — 
 
 No ! you take the other seat, Charley, 
 I need all this for my trail. 
 
 Geo. a. Baker, Jr. 
 
 A VALENTINE. 
 
 \T TELL, yes, of course it must be so; 
 
 No argument can shake it — 
 If one will offer .up a heart, 
 The other need but take it. 
 
A VALENTINE. 
 
 The truth of proverbs thus we learn, 
 
 The notion's far from new : 
 "II y en a toujours I'un qui baise, 
 
 Et I'autre qui tend la joue." 
 
 You may not think it fair, perhaps ; 
 
 Indeed, it does seem funny, 
 That bees should have to do the work 
 
 For drones to eat the honey ; 
 And yet in love 'tis just the same, 
 
 It is the " rule of two," — 
 "II y en a toujours I'un qui baise, 
 
 Et I'autre qui tend la joue." 
 
 Perhaps 'tis this unequal yoke 
 That keeps our love from dying; 
 
 One only listens to the sighs. 
 The other does the sighing. 
 
 He gives his love, his li-fe, his hopes, — 
 
 She gives her smiles, — -a few . . . 
 372 
 
THERE'S A TIME TO BE JOLLY. 
 
 '^ II y en a toujours I'un qui baise, 
 Et Tautre qui rend la joue." 
 
 Still, I would be content to know 
 
 My love had small returning ; 
 If I could hope to warm your heart, 
 
 I would not grudge mine burning ! 
 In fact, you see, it comes to this 
 
 (Which proves I care for you), 
 "Je veux etre toujours I'un qui baise. 
 
 Si tu me tends la joue!" 
 
 Ethel Grey. 
 
 THERE'S A TIME TO BE JOLTY. 
 
 '' I '^HERE'S a time to be jolly, a time to repent, 
 
 A season for folly, a season for Lent, 
 The first as the worst we too often regard ; 
 The rest as the best, but our judgment is hard. 
 
THERE'S A TIME TO BE JOLLY, 
 
 There are snows in December and roses in June, 
 There's darkness at midnight and sunshine at noon ; 
 But, were there no sorrow, no storm-cloud or rain, 
 Who'd care for the morrow with beauty again ? 
 
 The world is a picture both gloomy and bright, 
 And grief is the shadow and pleasure the light. 
 And neither should smother the general tone : 
 For where were the other if cither were gone ? 
 
 The valley is lovely ; the mountain is drear, 
 
 Its summit is hidden in mist all the year ; 
 
 But gaze from the heaven, high over all weather, 
 
 And mountain and valley are lovely together. 
 
 I have learned to love Lucy, though faded she be j 
 Jf my next love be lovely, the better for me. 
 By the end of next summer, I'll give you my oath. 
 It was best, after all, to have flirted with both. 
 Charles G. Leland {Haiis Breitinarut). 
 
ALL IN THE DOWNS. 
 
 "Had I a little son, I would christen him 'Nothing-to-do'" 
 
 Charles Lamb. 
 
 T WOULD I had something to do — or to think 1 
 
 Or something to read, or to write ! 
 1 am rapidly verging on lunacy's brink, 
 Or I shall be dead before night. 
 
 In my ears has been ringing and droning all day, 
 Without ever a stop or a change. 
 
 That poem of Tennyson's — heart-cheering lay ! — 
 Of llie moated monotonous Grange! 
 
 The stripes in the carpet and paper alike 
 I have counted, and counted all through. 
 
 And now I've a fervid ambition to strike 
 Out some path of wild pleasure that's new. 
 
 375 
 
ALL IN THE DOWNS. 
 
 They say, if a number you count, and recount, 
 That the tune imperceptibly goes, — 
 
 Ah ! I wish — how I wish ! — I'd ne'er learnt the 
 amount 
 Of my aggregate fingers and t(K^s. 
 
 "Enjoyment is fleeting," the proverbs all say, 
 "P'ven that which it feeds upon f^iils." 
 
 I've arrived at the truth of the saying to-day, 
 By devouring the whole of my nails. 
 
 I have numbered the minutes so heavy and slow, 
 
 Till of that dissipation I tire, 
 And as for exciting anuisenients, — )ou know 
 
 One can't always be slirring the fire. 
 
 Thomas Hood, Jun. 
 
 376 
 
THE COURTSHIP AND WEDDING. 
 
 A S I went to the wake that is held on the green, 
 1 met with young Phoebe, as bUthe as a queen ; 
 A form so divine might an anchorite move, 
 And I found (tho' a clown) I was smitten with love : 
 So I ask'd for a kiss, but she, blushing, replied, 
 Indeed, gentle shepherd, you must be denied. 
 
 Lovely Phoebe, says I, don't affect to be shy, 
 I vow I win kiss you — here's nobody by ; 
 No matter for that, she replied, 'tis the same; 
 For know, silly shepherd, I value my fame;. 
 So pray let me go, I shall surely be miss'd ; 
 Besides, I'm resolved that I will not be kiss'd. 
 
 Lord bless me ! I cried, I'm surprised you refuse ; 
 A few harmless kisses but serve to amuse ; 
 
TO MILDRED. 
 
 The month it is May, and the season for love, 
 So come, my dear girl, to the wake let us rove. 
 No, Damon, she cried, I must first be your wife, 
 You then shall be welcome to kiss me for life. 
 
 Well, come then, I cried, to the church let us ^o^ 
 But after, dear Phoebe must never say " No." 
 Do you prove but true, (she replied,) you shall find 
 I'll ever be constant, good humour'd and kiixl. 
 So I kiss when I please, for she ne'er says slic \Von't, 
 And I kiss her so much, that I wonder she don't. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 TO MILDRED. 
 
 '\7'0U shun me like a fawn, my dearest Milly, 
 
 That seeks its mother on the pathless hills, 
 
 Trembling at every sound — the little silly — 
 
 Of whispering breezes or of gurgling rills. 
 378 
 
KITTY OF COLERAINE. 
 
 Gazing, with trembling knees and beating heart, 
 At new-found marvels that she dare not pass ; 
 
 And bounding off again with sudden start 
 
 From rustlins: leaves or lizards in the 
 
 grass. 
 
 Don't be alarmed, my darling — I won't eat you — 
 
 I'm not a Bengal tiger nor a lion ; 
 Leave your mamma for one who'll never cheat you j 
 
 You'd like a husband if you'd only try one. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 KITTY OF COLERAINE. 
 
 A S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping, 
 With a pitcher of milk from the fair of 
 Coleraine, 
 When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tum- 
 bled, 
 And all the sweet butter-milk water'd the plain. 
 
 379 
 
KITTY OF COLERAINE, 
 
 O, what shall I do now, 'twas looking at yon noW; 
 
 Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again, 
 'Twas the pride of my dairy, O, Barney M'Leary, 
 
 You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine. 
 
 I sat down beside her, — and gently did chide her, 
 
 • That such a misfortune should give her such pain, 
 
 A kiss then I gave her, — before I did leave her. 
 
 She vcw'd for such pleasure she'd break it again. 
 
 'Twas hay-m iking season, I can't tell the reason, 
 Misfortunes will never come single, — that's plain, 
 
 For, very soon after poor Kitty's disaster, 
 The devil a pitcher was whole in Coleraine. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 380 
 
A BALL-ROOM ROACANCE. 
 
 A P'AIR good-night to thee, love, 
 A fair good-night to thee, 
 And pleasant be thy path, love, 
 
 Though it end not with me. 
 Liking light as ours, love. 
 
 Was never meant to last ; 
 It was a moment's fantasy, 
 
 And as such it has passed. 
 
 Ve met in lighted halls, 
 And our spirits took their tone, 
 
 Like other dreams of midnight 
 
 With colder morning flown. 
 
 And thinkest thou to ever win 
 
 A single tear from me ? 
 
 Lightly won and lightly lost, 
 
 I shed no tear for thee. 
 381 
 
A BALL-ROOM ROMANCE. 
 
 For him, the light and vain one, 
 
 For him there never wakes 
 That love for which a woman's heart 
 
 Will beat until it breaks. 
 And yet the spell was pleasant, 
 
 Though it be broken now, 
 Like shaking down loose blossoms 
 
 From oft" the careless bough. 
 
 Thy words were courtly flattery ; 
 
 Such sink like morning dew : 
 But ah ! love takes another tone, 
 
 The tender and the true. 
 There's little to remember, 
 
 And nothing to regret : 
 Love touches not the flatterer, 
 
 Love chains not the coquette, 
 
 'Twas of youth's fairy follies, 
 
 By which no shade is cast; 
 382 
 
AN EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 One of its airy vanities, 
 
 And like them it hath past. 
 No vows were ever plighted, 
 
 We'd no farewell to say : 
 Gay were we when we met at first, 
 
 And parted just as gay. . . . 
 A fair good-night to thee, love, 
 
 A fair good-night awhile ; 
 I have no parting sighs to give, 
 
 So take my parting smile. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 AN EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 TT THEN late I attempted youi pity to move, 
 
 What made you so deaf to my prayers ; 
 
 Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, 
 
 But — why did you kick me down stairs ? 
 
 Anonymous. 
 383 
 
ROSETTK. 
 
 {Imitated from tke French of BftKANGRR.) 
 
 '\/'ES! I know you're very fair; 
 
 And the rose-bloom uf your cheek, 
 And the gold-crown of your hair, 
 
 Seem of tender love to speak. 
 But to me they si)eak in vain, 
 
 I am growing old, my pet, — 
 Ah! if I could love you now 
 
 As I used to love Rosette ! 
 
 [n your carriage every day 
 
 I can see you bow and smile; 
 
 Lovers your least word obey. 
 Mistress you of every wile. 
 
 She was poor, and went on foot, 
 
 K Badl}' drest, you know, — and yet, — 
 384 
 
THE CRICKET OiV THE HEARTH. 
 
 Ah ! if I could love you now 
 As 1 used to love Rosette ! 
 
 You are clever, and well known 
 
 For your wit so quick and free ; — 
 Now, Rosette, I blush to own, 
 
 Scarcely knew her A B C ; 
 But she had a potent charm 
 
 In my youth : — ah, vain regret ! 
 If I could but love you now 
 
 As I used to love Rosette ! 
 
 THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH. 
 
 {^Imitated /ro7n the French of nfeR,\NGER.) 
 
 T N the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs, 
 
 And I dream in the firelight's glow, 
 
 And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs 
 
 That I listened to long ago. 
 385 
 
THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH, 
 
 Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp 
 T>ike an echoing, answering cry, — 
 
 Little we care for the outside world, 
 My friend the cricket and 1. 
 
 For my cricket has learnt, \ am sure of it quite, 
 
 That this earth is a silly, strange jilace, 
 And perhaps he's been beaten and hurt in the fight, 
 
 And perhaps he's been passed in the race. 
 But I know he has found it far better to sing 
 
 Than to talk of ill luck and to sigh, — 
 Little we care for the outside world, 
 
 My friend the cricket and L 
 
 Perhaps he has loved, and perhaps he has lost, 
 
 And perhaps he is weary and weak, 
 
 And tired of life's torrent, so turbid and tost, 
 
 ' And disposed to be mournful and meek. 
 386 
 
AN INVITATION. 
 
 Yet still I believe that he thinks it is best 
 To sing, and let troubles float by, — 
 
 Little we care for the outside world, 
 My friend the cricket and I. 
 
 AN INVITATION. 
 
 {From the French <?/" ThSophile Gautier.) 
 
 'TT^ELL me, pretty one, where will you sail? 
 How shall our bark be steered, I pray? 
 Breezes flutter each silken vail, 
 Tell me, where will you go to-day? 
 
 My vessel's helm is of ivory white, 
 
 Her bulwarks glisten with jewels bright 
 
 And red gold ; 
 
 The sails are made from the wings of a dove, 
 
 And the man at the wheel is the god of love, 
 
 Blytlie and bold. 
 387 
 
AN INVITATION. 
 
 Where shall we sail ? 'Mid the Baltic's foam ? 
 Or over the broad Pacific roam ? 
 
 Don't refuse. 
 Say, shall we gather the swi^et snow-flowers, 
 Or wander in rose-strewn Eastern bowers ? 
 
 Only choose. 
 
 " Oh, carry me then," cried the fair coquette, 
 "To the land where never I've journeyed yet, 
 
 To that shore 
 Where love is lasting, and change unknown, 
 And a man is faithful to one alone 
 
 Evermore." 
 
 Go, seek that land for a year and a day, 
 
 At the end of the time you'll be still far away, 
 
 Pretty maid ; — 
 
 'Tis a country unlettered in map or in chart, 
 
 'Tis a country that does not exist, sweetheart, 
 
 ' I'm afraid ! 
 
 388 
 
MY PRETTY NEIGHBOR. 
 
 {Front the Frettch of Victor Hugo.) 
 
 T F you've, nothing, dear, to tell me, 
 
 Why, each morning passing by, 
 With your sudden smiles compel me, 
 To adore you, then repel me, 
 Pretty little neighbor, why? 
 Why, if you have naught to tell me, 
 Do you so my patience try? 
 
 If you've nothing, sweet, to teach me, 
 Tell me why you press my hand? 
 
 I'll attend if you'll impeach me 
 
 Of my sins, or even preach me 
 Sermons hard to understand ; 
 
 But, if you have naught to teach me, 
 
 Dear, your meaning I demand I 
 389 
 
THREE KISSES. 
 
 If you wish me, love, to leave you, 
 Why forever walk my way ! 
 
 Then, when gladly I receive you, 
 
 Wherefore do I seem to grieve you ? 
 
 Must I then, in truth, believe you 
 Wish me, darling, far away ? 
 
 Do you wish me, love, to leave you? 
 Pretty little neighbor, say] 
 
 THREE KISSES. 
 
 {Imitated from the German of A. von Chamisso. 
 
 "\/'0U little maid with golden hair, 
 
 As at my thin grey locks you stare, 
 
 Your lisping tongue 
 
 Half asks the question which your eyes 
 
 Half mirror in their sweet surprise. 
 
 Was I once young? 
 390 
 
THREE KISSES. 
 
 Well, yes, there was a time, I think, 
 When even you could scarcely shrink 
 
 From saying so, 
 Some thought 1 was a handsome youth, 
 But then they died, in sober truth, 
 
 Long years ago. 
 
 Your dimpled face, so rosy round. 
 Recalls, as on my knee you bound, 
 
 Another, 
 As fresh and fair, which some one wore. 
 Who was she ? Why, my pet, 'twas your 
 
 Grandmother ! 
 
 Once in those days I kissed her hand 
 (I was in love, you understand) ; 
 
 She married 
 Your grandpapa; and as for me, 
 A broken heart across the sea 
 
 1 carried. 
 
THREE KISSES. 
 
 When I returned, your mother, sweet, 
 Was there my wearied steps to greet 
 
 With gladness : 
 But then came days of lovers* tryst ; 
 Her fair brow as a bride I kist 
 
 In sadness. 
 
 Since then I've traveled far and wide, 
 And now you're sitting by my side, 
 
 Her daughter ! 
 And often from your voice they ring. 
 The songs your mother used to sing,— 
 I taught her. 
 
 But as I kiss your baby lips, 
 And little rosy finger-tips, 
 
 My laughter 
 Is mingled with regret : I know 
 
THE BOUQUET. 
 
 The bud will to a blossom blow, 
 The child must to a woman grow, 
 Hereafter. 
 
 THE BOUQUET. 
 
 {Fro7n the Germafi of Uhland). 
 
 T F every flower's an emblem, as you say, 
 
 And every twig suggests a separate feeling; 
 If sadness crouches 'neath the cypress grey, 
 
 And love from out a rosebud may be stealing ; 
 If colors, too, express one's state of mind, 
 
 And Nature's tints can speak of human passion ; 
 If Hope's fair livery in green we find, 
 
 And Jealousy brings yellow into fashion ; 
 Then, sweetheart, in my garden there shall blow 
 All kinds of plants, whose various hues I'll borrow 
 In giving one bouquet to you, to show 
 
 Yours are my love, my cares, my hopes, my sor- 
 row. 
 
 393 
 
THE MISTAKEN MOTH. 
 
 {Imitated frojn the German of Wegener.) 
 
 > 1\ /r ID the summer flush of roses 
 
 Red and white, 
 Sat a damsel fair, a very 
 
 Pretty sight ; 
 Till a butterfly, so smart, 
 With a flutter and a dart, 
 Kissed her mouth, and made her start 
 In a fridit. 
 
 ** Ah, forgive me ! " begged the insect, 
 
 " If you please ; 
 I assure you that I didn't 
 
 Mean to tease. 
 I but took your rosebud lip 
 For the rose wherein I dip. 
 All its honey sweet to sip 
 
 At mine ease." 
 
 394 
 
THE MISTAKEN MOTH. 
 
 Said the beauty, to the moth, 
 
 " You may try 
 To excuse your forward conduct, 
 
 Sir, but I 
 Wish it clearly understood 
 That such roses are too good 
 To be kissed by every rude 
 
 Butterfly 1 " 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES, 
 
 PAGR 
 
 A BARD, dear muse, unapt to sing 3'')2 
 
 A FAIR good-night to thee, love 30 1 
 
 Again I hear that creaking step ! 117 
 
 Ah me ! those old familfar bounds ! 55 
 
 Airy, fairy Lilian 2S9 
 
 A IS an angel of blushing eighteen 192 
 
 A KNIGHT and a lady once met in a grove 263 
 
 Alas, how soon the hours are over 41 
 
 All honor to woman, the sweetheart, the wife 353 
 
 Although I enter not 100 
 
 And tliis was your cradle ? Why surely, my Jenny .... 149 
 
 A PRETTY task. Miss S , to ask 62 
 
 As beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping 379 
 
 As Dick and I ..... 366 
 
 A SIMPLE child has claims 159 
 
 As I sat at the cafe I said to myself. . , 300 
 
 As I went to the wake that is held on the green 377 
 
 As on this pictured page I look 106 
 
 A STREET there is in Paris famous 95 
 
 A SWEET *' No, no," — with a sweet smile beneath 267 
 
 **A TEMPLE to Friendship," said Laura, enchanted 4S 
 
 Ay, here stands the Poplar, so tall and so stately 262 
 
 Careless rhymer ! it is true 333 
 
 Catch her and hold her if you can 37 
 
 Christmas is here no 
 
 397 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 Do you remember when you heard. 2S0 
 
 Ere the moon the East has crimsoned 180 
 
 Farewell, farewell to my mother's own daughter 66 
 
 Father ! the little gh-1 we see. 39 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 273 
 
 Forever ! 'Tis a single word 190 
 
 For many a winter m Billiter-lane 256 
 
 Good-night ? ah ! no ; the hour is ill 275 
 
 Good pastry is vended 15 1 
 
 Go — you may call it madness, folly 246 
 
 Here on my desk it lies .• 347 
 
 Here, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses. ... 210 
 He stood, a worn-out City clerk 176 
 
 I ASICED my fair one happy day 253 
 
 I'd "read" three hours. Both notes and text 219 
 
 If every flower's an emblem, as you say 393 
 
 If I were you, when ladies at the play, sir 197 
 
 If this should fail, why then I scarcely know 205 
 
 If you've nothing, dear, to tell me 389 
 
 I KNOW not of what we pondered 185 
 
 I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore 65 
 
 I LOVE to hear thine earnest voice 84 
 
 I'm in love with neighbor Nelly 313 
 
 I'm often asked by plodding souls 353 
 
 In Clementina's artless mien 40 
 
 In London I never know what I'd be at 240 
 
 In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars 102 
 
 In the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs •. 385 
 
 In the greenest growth of the May-time 335 
 
 I play'd with you 'mid cowslips blowing 270 
 
 I plunge my hand among the leaves 222 
 
 I RECOLLECT a nurse called Ann 168 
 
 398 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 I REMEMBER the time ere his temples were grey 36 
 
 Irish eyes ! Irish eyes ! 324 
 
 1 SAW him once before 75 
 
 It cannot be said I've no love 342 
 
 I TH INK, whatever mortals crave 21 
 
 1 T ripen'd by the river banks 166 
 
 It's a singular fact that whenever I order 360 
 
 I' VE a sweetheart blithe and gay 350 
 
 ■Jenny kissed me when we met 266 
 
 Lady, very fair are you 332 
 
 Last year I trod these fields with Di 163 
 
 Laugh on, fair Cousins, for to you 28 
 
 Little I ask ; my wants are few 71 
 
 Lord Harry has written a novel 278 
 
 Love me, sweet, with all thou art 291 
 
 Madam, you are very pressing 120 
 
 Maiden ! wdth the meek brown eyes 282 
 
 Margaret's beauteous — Grecian arts 261 
 
 'Mid the summer flush of roses ... 394 
 
 My Aunt ! my dear unmarried aunt ! 8i 
 
 My coachman, in the moonlight there 298 
 
 My dear, to-morrow I can think 344 
 
 My little friend so small and neat 145 
 
 My mother bids me spend my smiles 67 
 
 My neighbor White ; we met to-day , 316 
 
 My temples throb, my pulses boil 67 
 
 Nature ! thy fair and smiling face 260 
 
 Novv o'er the landscape crowd the deepening shades 188 
 
 Oh, if my love offended me 349 
 
 Oh, there are times 78 
 
 O Memory ! that which I gave thee 171 
 
 399 
 
INDEX. 
 
 On this Tree if a nightingale settles and sings 357 
 
 Poor Rose ! I lift you from the street 232 
 
 Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin 359 
 
 Reason, and Folly, and Beauty, they say. 49 
 
 She has beauty, but still you must keep your heart cool.. 47 
 
 She passed up the aisle on the arm of her sire 1 5*4 
 
 She's jealous ! Am I sorry? No! 158 
 
 She then must once have looked, as 1 234 
 
 Sir Poet, ere you crossed the lawn 225 
 
 Slips of a kid-skin deftly sewn 167 
 
 Sly Beelzebub took all occasions 253 
 
 Still on the tower stood the vane 2S6 
 
 Sunny breadth of i-oses 327 
 
 Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye 269 
 
 Sweet Nea ! — for your lovely sake 310 
 
 Take my cloak — and now fix my veil, Jenny 368 
 
 Tell me, pretty one, where will you sail ? 387 
 
 The characters of great and small 155 
 
 The cunning hand that carved this face 339 
 
 The folds of her wine-dark violet dress 320 
 
 The glow and the glory are plighted 142 
 
 The poor man's sins are glaring 268 
 
 The Queen is proud on her throne 326 
 
 There are three ways in which men take 87 
 
 There is a sound that's dear to me 294 
 
 There's a time to be jolly, a time to repent 373 
 
 There sits a bird on every tree 308 
 
 The time I've lost in wooing 45 
 
 The wind and the beam loved the rose 281 
 
 The wisest of the wise 38 
 
 They may talk of love in a cottage 358 
 
 ThKY nearly strike me dumb 135 
 
 400 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGH 
 
 This old velvet coat has grown queer, I admit 329 
 
 This relative of mine 127 
 
 Though slender walls our hearths divide 138 
 
 Though the voice of modern schools 201 
 
 Thou record of the votive throng , . 265 
 
 Thou who, when fears attack 177 
 
 Thy smiles, thy talk, thy aimless plays 276 
 
 Too late I stayed ! forgive the crime 252 
 
 Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said 246 
 
 'TWAS ever thus from childhood's hour 182 
 
 Under the lindens lately sat 35 
 
 Well, yes, of course it must be so 371 
 
 When I was a maid 247 
 
 V7hen late I attempted your pity to move 383 
 
 When maidens such as Hester die' 254 
 
 When the black-letter' d list to the gods was presented . . 249 
 
 Why flyest thou away with fear ? 239 
 
 Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair 341 
 
 Years — years ago, — ere yet my dreams 3 
 
 Yes ! I know you're very fair 384 
 
 Yes, I write verses now and then 33 
 
 Yes, you were false, and though I'm free. 131 
 
 You little maid with golden hair 390 
 
 You'll come to our ball ; — since we parted 16 
 
 Young Jessica sat all the day 51 
 
 You shun me like a fawn, my dearest Milly 378 
 
 You tell me you're promised a lover lo 
 
 401 
 
Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
 Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
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