THE GOLD ROOM AN IDYL HEY come from mansions far up-town, THE And some, Charybdis' gulf whirls down, And some fall into Scylla's. Lo! here young Paris climbs the stairs It seems a Bacchic, brawling rout But such, methinks, must be an "out,' 66 Or has not made a corner." In me the rhythmic gush revives; Though in a Broad-Street fashion. Old Battos, here, 's a leading bull, And near them, shearing bankers' wool, And Atys, there, has gone to smash, His every bill protested, While Cleon's eyes with comfort flash, I have his funds invested! Mehercle! 'tis the same thing yet The Isthmian race, the dust and sweat, That man's the best at modern rhymes COMFORT Bayard Taylor. HO would care to pass his life away WHO Of the Lotos-land a dreamful deni zen, Lotos-islands in a waveless bay, Sung by Alfred Tennyson? Who would care to be a dull new-comer Rather give me coffee, art, a book, From my windows a delicious sea-view, Southdown mutton, somebody to cook,"Music?"-I believe you. Strawberry icebergs in the summer time,— For the nights of winter. Now and then a friend and some Sauterne, Now and then a haunch of Highland venison, And for Lotos-land I'll never yearn, Malgré Alfred Tennyson. Mortimer Collins. SUM A SUMMER SONG UMMER is sweet, ay! summer is sweet,— Clear the blue of his windless skies. On a river whose ripples to ocean haste, With indolent fingers fretting the tide, And an indolent arm round a darling waist And to see as the Western purple dies, Summer is fleet, ah! summer is fleet,- And the mystical colours of autumn rise. Than the golden minutes of love's sweet time: But to me, whom omnipotent love makes wise, There's endless summer in brown, brown eyes. Mortimer Collins MY AUNT'S SPECTRE HEY tell me (but I really can't It is the very worst of bores: At midnight through the rooms It glides, Behaving very coolly, Our hearts all throb against our sides— The lights are burning bluely. The lady, in her living hours, Yes, that's her portrait on the wall, A fine patrician shape, to suit Light hair of crisp irregular curl Over fair shoulders scatteredEgad, she was a pretty girl, Unless Sir Thomas flattered! And who the deuce, in these bright days, To take to dissipated ways Mortimer Collins. O' A CONCEIT H, touch that rose-bud! it will bloom- A passionate red in dim green gloom, A joy, a splendor, a perfume That sleeps in air. You touched my heart; it gave a thrill That opens at a lady's will; Its bloom is always yours, until You bid it close. Mortimer Collins. |