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I've seen you weep, and could have wept; I've heard you sing, (and might have slept !) Sometimes I hear your chimney swept,

My charming neighbour !

Your pets are mine. Pray what may

ail
The pup, once eloquent of tail ?
I wonder why your nightingale

Is mute at sunset.
Your puss, demure and pensive, seems
Too fat to mouse.

Much she esteems
Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams

Of mice she once ate.

Our tastes agree. I dote upon
Frail.jars, turquoise and celadon,
The Wedding March of Mendelssohn,

And Penseroso.
When sorely tempted to purloin
Your pietà of Marc Antoine,
Fair virtue doth fair play enjoin,

Fair Virtuoso !

At times an Ariel, cruel-kind,
Will kiss my lips, and stir your

blind, And whisper low, “She hides behind;

Thou art not lonely.”
The tricksy sprite would erst assist
At hush'd Verona's moonlight tryst ;-
Sweet Capulet! thou wert not kiss'd

By light winds only.

I miss the simple days of yore,
When two long braids of hair you wore,
And chat botté was wonder'd o'er,

In corner cozy.

But gaze not back for tales like those :
It's all in order, I suppose,
The Bud is now a blooming Rose,

-
A rosy-posy!

Indeed, farewell to bygone years;
How wonderful the change appears ;
For curates now, and cavaliers,

In turn perplex you:
The last are birds of feather gay,
Who swear the first are birds of prey ;
I'd scare them all had I my way,

But that might vex you.

At times I've envied, it is true,
That hero, joyous twenty-two,
Who sent bouquets and billets-doux,

And wore a sabre.
The rogue ! how close his arm he wound
About her waist, who never frown'd.
He loves

you,

Child. Now, is he bound To love my neighbour ?

The bells are ringing. As is meet,
White favours fascinate the street,
Sweet faces greet me, rueful-sweet

'Twixt tears and laughter :
They crowd the door, to see her go,
The bliss of one brings many woe;
Oh, kiss the bride, and I will throw

The old shoe after.

What change in one short afternoon,
My own dear neighbour gone,—so soon!
Is yon pale orb her honey-moon

Slow rising hither?

O Lady! wan and marvellous !
How oft have we held commune thus :
Sweet
memory
shall dwell with us,

-
And joy go with her!

FREDERICK LOCKER.

“REJECTED ADDRESSES.”
BIR TOBY was a portly party;
Sir Toby took his turtle hearty;

Sir Toby lived to dine:

Château margot was his fort ;
Bacchus would have backt his port;
He was an Alderman, in short,

Of the very first water—and wine.
An Alderman of the first degree,
But neither wife nor son had he:

He had a daughter fair,-
And often said her father, “ Cis,
You shall be dubbed my Lady,' Miss,

When I am dubbed Lord Mayor. “ The day I don the gown and chain, In Hymen's modern Fetter-Lane

You wed Sir Gobble Grist;
And whilst with pomp and pageant high
I scrape, and strut, and star it by.
St. George's-in-the-East, you'll try

St. George's-in-the-West.”
Oh vision of paternal pride!
Oh, blessëd Groom to such a Bride!

Oh happy Lady Cis!
Yet sparks won't always strike the match,
And miss may chance to lose “ her catch,"
Or he
may

catch-a miss!

[graphic]

Such things do happen, here and there,
When knights are old, and nymphs are fair,

And who can say they don't ?
When Worldly takes the gilded pill,
And Dives stands and

says

“I will, And Beauty says I won't!Sweet Beauty! Sweeter thus by farYoung Goddess of the silver star,

Divinity capricious ! Who would not barter wealth and wig, And pomp and pride and otium dig., For Youth-when“plums” weren't worth a fig

And Venus smiled propitious ?
Alas! that beaux will lose their spring,
And wayward belles refuse to “ring,”

Unstruck by Cupid's dart!
Alas! that-must the truth be told
Yet oft'ner has the archer sold
The “ white and red,” to touch the “gold,”

And Diamonds trumped the Heart !
That luckless heart! too soon misplaced !--
Why is it that parental taste
On sagest circulation based

So rarely pleases Miss ?
Let those who can the riddle read;
For me, I've no idea indeed,

No more, perhaps, had Cis.
It might have been she found Sir G.
Less tender than a swain should be,-

Young--sprightly-witty-gay?--
It might have been she thought his hat
Or head too round or square or flat

Or empty–who can say ?

What bard shall dare? Perhaps his nose ?-
A shade too pink, or pale, or rose ?—
His cut of beard, wig, whisker, hose ?—

A wrinkle ?-here-or there ?-
Perhaps the preux chevalier's chance
Hung on a word or on a glance,

Or on a single hair.

I know not! But the Parson waited,
The Bridegroom swore, the Groomsmen rated,

Till two o'clock or near ;-
Then home again in rage and wrath,
Whilst pretty Cis—was rattling North
With Jones the Volunteer!

H. CHOLMONDELEY PENNELL.

THE TALENTED MAN.

A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A LADY

AT LAUSANNE.

[graphic]

EAR Alice ! you'll laugh when you

know it,Last week, at the Duchess's ball,

I danced with the clever new poet, You've heard of him,-Tully St. Paul. Miss Jonquil was perfectly frantic; I wish

you

had seen Lady Anne ! It really was very romantic,

He is such a talented man!

He came up from Brazen-nose College,

Just caught, as they call it, this spring ; And his head, love, is stuffed full of knowledge

Of every conceivable thing.

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