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 favored lover,

A month--“a little month”—ago—

O theme for moral writer!-

Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know,

She might have been politer;

"LE ROMAN DE LA ROSE."

But let that pass. She gave you then

Behind the oleander

To one, perhaps, of all the men,

Who best could understand her,

Cyril, that, duly flattered, took,

As only Cyril's able,

With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;

Then, having waltzed till every star

Had paled away in morning,

Lit up his cynical cigar,

And tossed you downward, scorning.

Kismet, my rose! Revenge is sweet,-
She made my heart-strings quiver;

And yet You shan't lie in the street:
I'll drop you in the River.

DOROTHY.

A REVERIE.

(Suggested by the name upon a Pane.)

HE then must once have looked, as

SHE

Look now, across the level rye,—

Past Church and Manor-house, and seen,

I

The swallows must have twittered, too,

Above her head; the roses blew

Below, no doubt,—and, sure, the South

Crept up the wall and kissed her mouth,

That wistful mouth, which comes to me

Linked with her name of Dorothy.

DOROTHY.

What was she like? I picture her

Unmeet for uncouth worshipper;

Soft,-pensive,-far too subtly graced

To suit the blunt bucolic taste,

Whose crude perception could but see "Ma'am fine-airs" in "Miss Dorothy."

How not? She loved, may be, perfume, Soft textures, lace, a half-lit room;— Perchance too candidly preferred

"Clarissa" to a gossip's word;—

And, for the rest, would seem to be

Or proud or dull-this Dorothy.

Poor child—with heart the down-lined nest

Of warmest instincts unconfest,

Soft, callow things that vaguely felt

The breeze caress, the sunlight melt,

But yet, by some obscure decree

Unwinged from birth;-poor Dorothy!

DOROTHY.

Not less I dream her mute desire

To acred churl and booby squire,

Now pale, with timorous eyes that filled

At "twice-told tales" of foxes killed;—

Now trembling when slow tongues grew free 'Twixt sport, and Port-and Dorothy!

'Twas then she'd seek this nook, and find

Its evening landscape balmy-kind;

And here, where still her gentle name

Lives on the old green glass, would frame

Fond dreams of unfound harmony

'Twixt heart and heart. Poor Dorothy!

L'ENVOI.

These last I spoke. Then Florence said,

Below me,

-"Dreams? Delusions, Fred!"

Next, with a pause,-she bent the while

Over a rose, with roguish smile

"But how disgusted, sir, you'll be

To hear I scrawled that

Dorothy.'