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No footman in lace and in ruffles
Need dangle behind my arm.chair; And never mind seeking for truses,
Although they be ever so rare.
But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy,
I prithee get ready at three :
And what better meat can there be ?
'Twill amply suffice for the maid ; Meanwhile I will smoke my canaster. And tipple my ale in the shade.
William Makepeace Thackeray.
ON AN OLD LAMP.
"Hush ! in the canal below
"Lady, do you know the tune?
William Makepeace Thackeray.
There's a tempting bit of greenery--of rus in urbe scenery
That's haunied by the London “ upper ten;" Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back
Little fits of tedium vitæ now and then.
Oh! the times that I have been there, and the types that I have
seen there Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the “swell ; And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders)
Are considerably more than I can tell.
When first the warmer weather brought these people all together,
And the crowds began to thicken through the Row, I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, inhaling
All the spirits that the breezes could bestow.
And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers
Left me lonely in the thickest of the throng, Not a touch upon my shoulder-not a nod from one beholder
As the stream of Art and Nature went along.
But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage,
Of a figure and a sace--ah, such a face ! Love has photograph'd the leatures of that loveliest of creatures
On my memory, as Love alone can trace.
Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they were sandy,)
Whose absurd salute was honour'd by a smile ?
When she evidently loathed him all the while ?
Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted,
Since the day (it seems a century ago)
Henry S. Leigh.
DRYDEN AND THACKERAY.
( Historical Contrast. )
Public and party hates defied,
Of angry times-when Dryden died,
Waited for no suggestive prayer,
Craved as a boon to lay him there.
Vanished before a nation's pain ; “ Panther” and “Hind forgot their strise,
And rival siatesmen thronged the fane. O gentle Censor of our age !
Prime master of our ampler tongue ! Whose word of wit and generous page
Were never wroth except with wrong,Fielding—without the manners' dross,
Scott—with a spirit's larger room, What prelate deems thy grave his loss?
What Haliflax erects thy tomb? But may be, He who so could draw
The hidden great, the humble wise, Yielding with them to God's good law, Makes the Pantheon where he lies.
Richard, Lord Houghton.
All through the sultry hours of June,
And till the star of evening climbs
too soon, There sings a Thrush amid the limes,
God's poet, hid in foliage green,
Right seldom come his silent times.
Sing on, dear Thrushi, amid the limes !
Nor from these confines wander out,
Commits all day his murderous crimes :
Sweeter thy song amid the limes.
May I not dream God sends thee there,
Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes
Is that thy lesson in the lines ?
Closer to God art thou than I:
Through silent æther's summer climes.
We gathered together that day,
Of a happiness pass'd away.
Low down in the sedges cool,
In a fortunate fairy pool.
And treasured those blossoms blue,
Charlotte Alington Barnard.
A LOVELY young lady I mourn in my rhymes,
George John Cayley.
TO THE AUTHOR OF HESPERIDES.
HAYRICK some do spell thy name,
EPITAPH ON A FAVOURITE DOG.
A wreath presaging life, we twine ;
Sir Francis Hastings Doyle.
When Letty had scarce passed her third glad year,
And her young, artless words began to flow, One day we gave the child a coloured sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know By tint and outline all its sea and land.
She patted all the world ; old empires peeped Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers; how she leaped,