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

And when I pat the dear old whelp, it .. It makes me think of You, and then

And then I cry—I cannot help it.

my den,

.

before you

me, ere

Ah yes,

left Our separation was impending, These eyes had seldom shed a tear,

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 out-
She ought to go. Of course she's going !

FREDERICK LOCKER.

OUTWARD BOUND.

SOME, 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 Mabel.”

or

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.

M

Y heart beat high, for I had heard

That Ellen Vere had come to

town

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.

We loved, or thought we loved; and love,

To us a passion new and strange,
Shone like a star in heaven above,
Bright, calm, incapable of change.

Our life was one bright dream of joy,
A golden age, without alloy
Of jealousy or doubt;
Youth we possessed, and strength and

health,
We'd gain, if Fate so willed it, wealth,
And if not-do without!

Ah me, poor

fools! a twelvemonth more
Was 'whelmed in time's unceasing tide,
And Ellen left her native shore
An Indian merchant's blooming bride.

A man he was in council great,
Of aspect grave and mien sedate,
Brown face and little mind;

Parting with her few tears I shed,

I drank his health, and wished him dead, And hated all mankind !

A“lapse of years" then intervenes,

And when I see the stage once more,
The characters, the very scenes,
Are grander than they were of yore.

The room is filled with nick-nacks rare,
Rich Indian perfumes load the air,
Huge servants bow around;

So oriental is the show,

It needs the cab I leave below
To prove it British ground.

For Ellen has returned—she greets

Me' with a cold and formal bend,