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And beauty counts over her numbers

Of conquests, as homeward she drives— And some are gone home to their slumbers, And some are gone home to their wives.

And I while my cab in the shower
Is waiting, the last at the door,
Am looking all round for the flower
That fell from your wreath on the floor.
I'll keep it-if but to remind me,

Though wither'd and faded its hue-
Wherever next season may find me—
Of England-of Almack's—and you!

There are tones that will haunt us, though lonely
Our path be o'er mountain or sea;

There are looks that will part from us only
When memory ceases to be ;

There are hopes which our burthen can lighten,
Tho' toilsome and steep be the way;

And dreams that, like moonlight, can brighten With a light that is clearer than day.

There are names that we cherish, tho' nameless,
For aye on the lip they may be;

There are hearts that, tho' fetter'd, are tameless,
And thoughts unexpress'd, but still free!

And some are too grave for a rover,

And some for a husband too light,— The Ball and my dream are all overGood-night to thee, Lady, Good-night! EDWARD FITZGERALD.

"YES; I WRITE VERSES NOW AND

THEN."

ES; I write verses now and then,
But blunt and flaccid is my pen,
No longer talkt of by young men
As rather clever:

In their last quarter are my eyes,
You see it by their form and size;
Is it not time then to be wise?
Or now, or never.

Fairest that ever sprang from Eve!
While Time allows the short reprieve,

Just look at me!

Would you believe
'Twas once a lover?

I cannot clear the five-bar gate,
But, trying first its timber's state,
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait
To trundle over.

Thro' gallopade I cannot swing

The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring: I cannot say the tender thing,

Be't true or false,

And am beginning to opine

Those girls are only half-divine

Whose waists you wicked boys entwine
In giddy waltz.

I fear that arm above that shoulder,
I wish them wiser, graver, older,
Sedater, and no harm if colder

And panting less.

Ah! people were not half so wild
In former days, when, starchly mild,
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smiled
The brave Queen Bess.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

TU QUOQUE.

AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY,

NELLIE.

F I were you, when ladies at the play, sir,

Beckon and nod, a melodrama
through,

I would not turn abstractedly away, sir,
If I were you!

FRANK.

If I were you, when persons I affected,

Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected,

If I were you!

NELLIE.

If I were you, when ladies are so lavish,

Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two,
I would not dance with odious Miss M' Tavish,
If I were you!

FRANK.

If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer

Whiff of the best,-the mildest "honey-dew," I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you!

NELLIE.

If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter,
Even to write the "Cynical Review;"

FRANK.

No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter,

If I were you!

NELLIE.

Really! you would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful,

Hot as Othello, and as black of hue;

Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you!

FRANK.

"It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is
Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu!
I shall retire. I'd spare that poor Adonis,
If I were you!

Go, if

NELLIE.

you will. At once! And by express, sir!

Where shall it be? To China-or Peru? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, If I were you!

FRANK.

No, I remain. To stay and fight a duel

Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to doAh! you are strong, I would not then be cruel, If I were you!

NELLIE.

One does not like one's feelings to be doubted,

FRANK.

One does not like one's friends to misconstrue,—

NELLIE.

If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ?—

́FRANK.

I should admit that I was piqué, too.

NELLIE.

Ask me to dance. I'd say no more about it,

If I were you!

(Waltz-Exeunt.)

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE."

OOR Rose! I lift you from the street,—
Far better I should own you

Than you should lie for random feet
Where careless hands have thrown

you.

Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn!
Did heartless Mayfair use you,
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn,
For chariot-wheels to bruise you?

I

saw you

last in Edith's hair,

Rose, you

would scarce discover

That I she passed upon the stair

Was Edith's favoured lover,

A month-"6 a little month❞—ago—
O theme for moral writer!-
"Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,
She might have been politer;

But let that pass. She

Behind the oleander

gave you then

To one, perhaps, of all the men—

Who best could understand her,

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