No footman in lace and in ruffles But a plain leg of mutton, my Lucy, William Makepeace Thackeray. CCCCLXIV. ON AN OLD LAMP. "HUSH! in the canal below * "Lady, do you know the tune? When he was young as you are young, And love-lamps in the casement hung." William Makepeace Thackeray. CCCCLXV. ROTTEN ROW. THERE'S a tempting bit of greenery-of rus in urbe sceneryThat's haunted 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 beholderAs the stream of Art and Nature went along. But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage, Of a figure and a face-ah, such a face! Love has photograph'd the features 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,) Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness, Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted, Since the day (it seems a century ago) When my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter, On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row! Henry S. Leigh. CCCCLXVI. DRYDEN AND THACKERAY. (Historical Contrast.) WHEN one whose nervous English verse, Waited for no suggestive prayer, The wayward faith, the faulty life, O gentle Censor of our age! Prime master of our ampler tongue! Fielding-without the manners' dross, But may be, He who so could draw Richard, Lord Houghton. CCCCLXVII. MY THRUSH. ALL through the sultry hours of June, God's poet, hid in foliage green, Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! Nor from these confines wander out, Commits all day his murderous crimes: May I not dream God sends thee there, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes Closer to God art thou than I : His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! Mortimer Collins. CCCCLXVIII. FORGET-ME-NOTS. BLUE as the sky were the simple flowers They grew mid the rushes so tall and green, We drew them out of their home, unseen, And you gave me some and I took them home, Tho' never a flower was needed less To be given to me by you. Charlotte Alington Barnard. CCCCLXIX. AN EPITAPH. A LOVELY young lady I mourn in my rhymes, CCCCLXX. TO THE AUTHOR OF HESPERIDES. HAYRICK Some do spell thy name, William Allingham. CCCCLXXI. EPITAPH ON A FAVOURITE DOG. NOT hopeless, round this calm sepulchral spot, If God be Love, what sleeps below was not Sir Francis Hastings Doyle. CCCCLXXII. SONNET. WHEN Letty had scarce passed her third glad year, 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, |