GOOD-NIGHT

And many a fair one is sighing,
And many a false one is gay;

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, tho' 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;

GOOD-NIGHT

reams that, like moonlight, can brighten h a light that is clearer than day.

are names that we cherish, tho' nameless,

aye on the lip they may be;

are hearts, tho' fetter'd, are tameless, I thoughts unexpress'd, but still free! ome are too grave for a rover,

I some for a husband too light, -
all and my dream are all over —
›d-night to thee, Lady, Good-night!

EDWARD FITZGERALD

THE MODERN BELLE

SHE sits in a fashionable parlor,
And rocks in her easy chair;
She is clad in silks and satins,
And jewels are in her hair;

She winks and giggles and simpers,

And simpers and giggles and winks; And though she talks but little,

"T is a good deal more than she thinks.

She lies abed in the morning

Till nearly the hour of noon,

Then comes down snapping and snarling Because she was called so soon;

Her hair is still in papers,

Her cheeks still fresh with paint, Remains of her last night's blushes, Before she intended to faint.

She dotes upon men unshaven,
And men with "flowing hair";

She's eloquent over mustaches,
They give such a foreign air.

THE MODERN BELLE

She talks of Italian music,

And falls in love with the moon; And, if a mouse were to meet her, She would sink away in a swoon.

Her feet are so very little,

Her hands are so very white, Her jewels so very heavy,

And her head so very light;
Her color is made of cosmetics
(Though this she will never own),

Her body is mostly of cotton,
Her heart is wholly of stone.

She falls in love with a fellow
Who swells with a foreign air;
He marries her for her money,
She marries him for his hair!
One of the very best matches, —
Both are well-mated in life;

She's got a fool for a husband,

He's got a fool for a wife!

ANONYMOUS

FRIEND AND LOVER

WHEN Psyche's friend becomes her lover, How sweetly these conditions blend! But, oh, what anguish to discover

Her lover has become - her friend!

MARY AINGE DE VERE