Has published a book with a dreary name; A wife so pretty and wise withal, Haunts me, and makes me appear so small. The only answer that I can see Is I could not have married Hermioné (That is her fine wise name), but she Stooped in her wisdom and married me. For I am a fellow of no degree, The Latin they thrashed into me at school The world and its fights have thrashed away; At figures alone I am no fool, And in city circles I say my say. But I am a dunce at twenty-nine, And the kind of study that I think fine Is a chapter of Dickens, a sheet of the "Times" When I lounge, after work, in my easy-chair; "Punch" for humor, and Praed for rhymes, And the butterfly mots blown here and there By the idle breath of the social air. A little French is my only gift, Hermioné, my Hermioné! What could your wisdom perceive in me? And, Hermioné, my Hermioné! How does it happen at all that we Love one another so utterly? Well, I have a bright-eyed boy of two, A darling, who cries with lung and tongue about: As fine a fellow, I swear to you, As ever poet of sentiment sung about! And my lady-wife with the serious eyes Brightens and lightens when he is nigh, And looks, although she is deep and wise, As foolish and happy as he or I! And I have the courage just then, you see, Those learned lips that the learned praise- To tell her my stories of things and men; And it never strikes me that I am profane, For she laughs and blushes, and kisses again! And presto! fly goes her wisdom then! The boy claps hands, and is up on her breast, Roaring to see her so bright with mirth; And I know she deems me (oh the jest!) And Hermioné, my Hermioné, Nurses her boy and defers to me; Does not seem to see I'm small- And wherever I wander, up and about, In spite of her Greek and philosophy, me, Seems sweeter and wiser, I asseverSweeter and wiser, and far more clever, And makes me feel more foolish than ever, Through her childish, girlish, joyous grace, And the silly pride in her learnèd face! That is the puzzle I can't make out— Because I care little for books, no doubt; But the puzzle is pleasant, I know not why, For, whenever I think of it, night or morn, I thank my God she is wise, and I The happiest fool that was ever born. ROBERT BUCHANAN. "BEAUTY CLARE." HALF Lucrece, half Messalina, When I see you, I compare Surely Nature must have meant you That sweet voice and glittering hair; I think not. The moral door-step |