Has published a book with a dreary name;
And yet (God bless her!) is mild and meek.
And how I happened to woo and wed
A wife so pretty and wise withal,
Is part of the puzzle that fills my head-
Plagues me at day-time, racks me in bed,
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,
Given to romping and jollity;
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,
Wherewith at times I can make a shift,
Guessing at meanings, to flutter over
A filigree tale in a paper cover.
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, To kiss the lips of HermionéThose learned lips that the learned praiseAnd to clasp her close as in sillier days; To talk and joke in a frolic vein;
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 !)
The cleverest fellow on all the earth!
And Hermioné, my Hermioné,
Nurses her boy and defers to me;
Does not seem to see I'm small-
Even to think me a dunce at all!
And wherever I wander, up and about,
Here is the puzzle I can't make out:
That Hermioné, my Hermioné,
In spite of her Greek and philosophy,
When sporting at night with her boy and
me,
Seems sweeter and wiser, I assever-
Sweeter 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 learned 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.
HALF Lucrece, half Messalina,
Lovely piece of Sèvres china,
When I see you, I compare
You with common, quiet creatures,
Homely delf in ways and features-
Beauty Clare!
Surely Nature must have meant you
For a Siren when she sent you
That sweet voice and glittering hair;
Was it touch of human passion
Made you woman, in a fashion-
Beauty Clare?
I think not. The moral door-step
Cautiously you never o'erstep
When your victims you ensnare
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