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!
The pup, once eloquent of tail?
I wonder why your nightingale
Is mute at sunset.
puss, demure and pensive, seems Too fat to mouse. Much she esteems Yon sunny wall, and, dozing, dreams Of mice she once ate.
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,
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
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!
"REJECTED ADDRESSES."
IR 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, blessed 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!
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 far-
Young 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.
A LETTER FROM A LADY IN LONDON TO A LADY AT LAUSANNE.
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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