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This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,
Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.
Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all crack'd),
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed ;
A twopenny 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.
That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp ;
A Makeluke 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 a 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 the 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 ;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If 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 ;
I wish'd myself turn’d 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,
Like 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.
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 my 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.

William Makepeace Thackeray.


One year ago my path was green,
My footstep light, my brow serene ;
Alas! and could it have been so

One year ago ?

There is a love that is to last
When the hot days of youth are past :
Such love did a sweet maid bestow

One year ago

I took a leaflet from her braid
And gave it to another maid.
Love! broken should have been thy bow

One year ago

Walter Savage Landor.




BENEATH an Indian palm a girl
Of other blood reposes,
Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl,
Amid that wild of roses.

Beside a northern pine a boy
Is leaning fancy-bound,
Nor listens where with noisy joy
Awaits the impatient hound.
Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,-
Relaxed the frosty twine,-
The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,
The palm-tree of the pine.
As soon shall nature interlace
Those dimly-visioned boughs,
As these young lovers face to face
Renew their early vows !

Richard, Lord Houghton.



Lines written to an Album Print.
As on this pictured page I look,
This pretty tale of line and hook,
As though it were a novel-book,

Amuses and engages :
I know them both, the boy and girl ;
She is the daughter of the 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 :

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 cloak 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 question'd his affection !

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack !
You never mark, though trout or jack,
Or little foolish stickleback,

Your baited snares may capture.
What care has she for line and hook ?
She turns her back upon the brook,
Upon her lover's eyes to look

In sentimental 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 ;
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.

William Makepeace Thackeray.



He talked of daggers and of darts,

Of passions and of pains,
Of weeping eyes and wounded hearts,

Of kisses and of chains;
He said, though Love was kin to Grief,

She was not born to grieve ;
He said though many rued belief

She safely might believe ;
But still the lady shook her head,

And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,

And all that he could say.

He said, my First, whose silent car

Was slowly wandering by, Veiled in a vapour, faint and far,

Through the unfathomed sky, Was like the smile whose rosy light

Across her young lips passed, Yet oh ! it was not half so bright,

It changed not half so fast;
But still the lady shook her head,

And swore by yea and nay
My Whole was all that he had said,

And all that he could say.

And then he set a cypress wreath

Upon his raven hair,
And drew his rapier from its sheath,

Which made the lady stare ;
And said, his life-blood's purple flow

My Second there should dim,
If she he served and worshipped so

Would weep one tear for him ;
But still the lady shook her head,

And swore by yea and nay,
My Whole was all that he had said,

And all that he could say.

Winthrop M. Praed.

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