AN INVITATION TO ROME.

THE REPLY.

EAR Exile, I was proud to get
Your rhyme, I've laid it up in

cotton;

You know that you are all to "Pet,"She fear'd that she was quite forgotten! Mamma, who scolds me when I mope, Insists, and she is wise as gentle, That I am still in love! I hope

That you feel rather sentimental!

Perhaps you think your Love forlore

Should pine unless her slave be with her; Of course you're fond of Rome, and more— Of course you'd like to coax me thither! Che! quit this dear delightful maze

Of calls and balls, to be intensely Discomfited in fifty ways—

I like your confidence, immensely!

Some girls who love to ride and race,
And live for dancing, like the Bruens,
Confess that Rome's a charming place-
In spite of all the stupid ruins!

I think it might be sweet to pitch

One's tent beside those banks of Tiber, And all that sort of thing, of which

Dear Hawthorne's "quite" the best describer.

To see stone pines and marble gods
In garden alleys red with roses;-
The Perch where Pio Nono nods ;-
The Church where Raphael reposes.

Make pleasant giros-when we may;
Jump stagionate (where they're easy!)
And play croquet; the Bruens say
There's turf behind the Ludovisi !

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee
Says packing books is such a worry ;
I'll bring my Golden Treasury,

Manzoni, and, of course, a “Murray!”
Your verses (if you so advise!)

A Dante-Auntie owns a quarto; I'll try and buy a smaller size,

And read him on the muro torto.

But can I go? La Madre thinks

It would be such an undertaking! (I wish we could consult a sphinx!)

The thought alone has left her quaking!
Papa (we do not mind papa)

Has got some "notice" of some "motion,"
And could not stay; but why not,—ah,
I've not the very slightest notion!

The Browns have come to stay a week-
They've brought the boys-I haven't thank❜d'em;

For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,

Are playing cricket in my sanctum !

Your Rover, too, affects my den,

And when I pat the dear old whelp, it . .

It makes me think of You, and then

Ah

And then I cry-I cannot help it.

yes, before you left me, ere Our separation was impending, These had seldom shed a tear,eyes I thought my joy could have no ending!

But cloudlets gather'd soon, and this-
This was the first that rose to grieve me-
To know that I possess'd the bliss,-

For then I knew such bliss might leave me!

My strain is sad, but, oh, believe

Your words have made my spirit better;
And if, perhaps, at times I grieve,

I'd meant to write a cheery letter;
But skies were dull; Rome sounded hot,
I fancied I could live without it:
I thought I'd go, I thought I'd not,
And then I thought I'd think about it.

The sun now glances o'er the Park,

If tears are on my cheek, they glitter, I think I've kiss'd your rhyme, for hark, My "bulley" gives a saucy twitter! Your blessed words extinguish doubt,

A sudden breeze is gaily blowing,And Hark! The minster bells ring outShe ought to go. Of course she's going! FREDERICK LOCKER.

OUTWARD BOUND.

OME, Laura, patience. Time and spring Your absent Arthur back shall bring, Enriched with many an Indian thing, Once more to woo you; Him, neither wind nor wave can check Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck, Still constant, though with stiffened neck, Makes verses to you.

Would it were wave and wind alone!
The terrors of the torrid zone,
The indiscriminate cyclone,

A man might parry;

But only faith, or "triple brass,”
Can help the "outward bound" to pass
Safe through that eastward-faring class
Who sail to marry.

For him fond mothers, stout and fair,
Ascend the tortuous cabin stair
Only to hold around his chair
Insidious sessions;

For him the eyes of daughters droop
Across the plate of handed soup,
Suggesting seats upon the poop,
And soft confessions.

Nor are these all his pains, nor most.
Romancing captains cease to boast-
Loud majors leave their whist—to roast
The youthful griffin;

All, all with pleased persistence show
His fate" remote, unfriended, slow
His "melancholy" bungalow,-
His lonely tiffin.

In vain. Let doubts assail the weak;
Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak,"
Your "blameless Arthur " hears them speak
Of woes that wait him;

Naught can subdue his soul secure ;
"Arthur will come again," be sure,
Though matron shrewd and maid mature
Conspire to mate him.

But, Laura, on your side, forbear
To greet with too impressed an air
A certain youth with chestnut hair,—
A youth unstable ;

Albeit none more skilled can guide
The frail canoe on Thamis tide,
Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide

Through "Guards" or "Mabel."

Be warned in time. Without a trace
Of acquiescence on your face,
Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space
His airy patter;

Avoid the confidential nook;

If, when you sing, you find his look
Grow tender, close your music-book,
And end the matter.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

TWENTY AND THIRTY.

Y heart beat high, for I had heard That Ellen Vere had come to town

M

My heart beat high-yet how absurd!
For scarcely twice five years had flown
Since she and I, as maid and youth,
Exchanged eternal vows of truth,
Beneath a hawthorn's shade;

Our witnesses two sleepy cows,
Two rooks, down-looking from the
boughs,

And Ellen's lady's-maid.