A LAST RESOURCE.

LONE on India's burning plain,
Beneath a banyan tree,

A mortal many hours had lain
In ceaseless agony.

Mosquitoes with a constant buzz

Came flocking round their prize : (It varies the mosquito doesIn appetite and size.)

But, though it varies as to form,

And varies as to thirst,

In Asia, (where the nights are warm,)
The small ones are the worst.

Anon their victim waved his arm

To scare them from their feed;

But found, alas! that their alarm
Was very brief indeed.

Then other remedies he sought,
But still he sought in vain ;
Until a wild and witching thought
Came flashing through his brain.
At once he started bolt upright
Against the banyan tree,

And, in the silence of the night,
"Now, listen all !" said he.

“I've had enough of these attacks— Enough and rather more!"

(His voice had now begun to wax

Much louder than before.

The hearers trembled, one and all; Dead stillness reign'd around : You might have heard a needle fall

The hush was so profound.)

"When I was living far away-

Across the briny deep

I laid me down one summer day

To try to go to sleep;

When, lo! as I began to see

A prospect of repose,

There straightway came a humble-bee Who buzz'd about my nose.

"I ever was a patient man ; I take a certain pride

In suffering as best I can

Whatever ills betide.

But this was not a thing to bear;

So rising in my wrath,

I slew the monster then and there

Upon the table-cloth.

"The moral of my tale, methinks,

'Tis needless to declare.

I wish to take my forty winks:

Disturb me if ye dare.

The first who interferes with me

Imperils life and limb;

For as I did unto the bee

I mean to do to him!"

Again he glanced upon the crew,
And laid him down to rest.

Irresolute and pallid grew

Their bravest and their best.

Next morning when the sunlight gleam'd

Upon the earth and sea,

That unmolested youth still dream'd

About the humble-bee.

WEATHERBOUND IN THE SUBURBS.

THE air is damp, the skies are leaden ;

The ominous lull of impending rain

Presses upon me, and seems to deaden
Every sense but a sense of pain.

Hopes of getting again to London

Lapse into utter and grim despair;
Shall I do my verses or leave them undone?
I don't know, and I don't much care.

I sit in a silence broken only

Now and again by the wandering breeze, A breeze in the garden, wandering lonely, Or playing the fool with shivering trees.