CHARADES. I. THERE was a time young Roland thought Silent he sits, nor cares to follow His deep-mouth'd stag-hound's matin burst, How is it now, when Isabel Breathes one low note of those sweet numbers, That every thought of hill and dell, And all-save that sweet minstrel-slumbers. Why does he feel that long, dull pain Within my Second when she leaves him? When shall his falcon fly again? When shall he break the spell that grieves him? And Isabel-how is it, too, That sadness o'er that young brow closes ? How hath her eye lost half its blue? How have her cheeks lost all their roses? Still on her lute sweet numbers dwell, Still magic seems the breath that sways it; One summer's eve, while Isabel Sang till the starlight came to greet her, A tear from Roland's eyelid fell, And warp'd the string and spoil'd the metre. She could not sing another note; Wherefore, or why, I've not a notion; And he the swelling in his throat Seemed working from some poisonous potion. I know not-I-how sigh or tear Witnessed, you'll say, such strange conclusions. Beside my All I saw them sit; And that same lute of song so tender A little child was thumping it With all his might-against the fender! And Isabel-she sang no more, But ever that small urchin followed; Who with the lute upon the floor, Like a young dryad, whooped and holloed! And Roland's hound is heard again, And Roland's hawk hath loosened jesses! But Roland's smile is brightest when Beside my All his boy he presses. II. SIR HARRY is famed for his amiable way you would ask of that maiden fair What Sir Harry said while he lingered there; Were the maiden as clever as L. E. L. Not a word that he said could the maiden tell! Sir Harry has ears, and Sir Harry has eyes, And his breath, tho' resembling in naught the "sweet south," Is inhaled through his lips, and exhaled from his mouth; And yet from the hour that Sir Harry was nursed, People said that his head was no more than my First! Sir Harry has ringlets he curls every day, Were a youth that I know to be caught in the noose; For I've oft heard her say-tho' so flighty she's reckoned That she'd ne'er take a bridegroom who hadn't my Second! Sir Harry sat out, the last visit he paid, From when breakfast was over, till dinner was laid! Of the ball and the ballet-the park and the play. Little Rosa, who hoped, ere the whole day had passed, III. MORNING is beaming o'er brake and bower, Lo! where my Second, in gorgeous array, Spread is the banquet, and studied the song; my Whole. Look to the hill, is he climbing its side? IV. "My first was dark o'er earth and air, As dark as she could be! 66 6 The stars that gemmed her ebon hair King Cole saw twice as many there 'Away, King Cole,' mine hostess said, 'Flagon and flask are dry; Your nag is neighing in the shed, V. COME from my First, ay, come! The battle dawn is nigh; And the screaming trump and the thund'ring drum Are calling thee to die! Fight as thy father fought, Fall as thy father fell, Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought; So-forward! and farewell! Toll ye, my Second! toll! Fling high the flambeau's light; |