THE GOLD ROOM

AN IDYL

HEY come from mansions far up-town,
And from their country villas,

THE

And some, Charybdis' gulf whirls down, And some fall into Scylla's.

Lo! here young Paris climbs the stairs
As if their slope were Ida's,
And here his golden touch declares
The ass's ears of Midas.

It seems a Bacchic, brawling rout
To every business-scorner,

But such, methinks, must be an "out,'

66

Or has not made a corner."

In me the rhythmic gush revives;
I feel a classic passion:
We, also, lead Arcadian lives,

Though in a Broad-Street fashion.

Old Battos, here, 's a leading bull,
And Diomed a bear is,

And near them, shearing bankers' wool,
Strides the Tiltonian Charis;

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
As in the days of Pindar:

The Isthmian race, the dust and sweat,
The prize-why, what's to hinder?
And if I twang my lyre at times,
They did so then, I reckon;

That man's the best at modern rhymes
Whom you can draw a check on!

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
Far across the wild sea's wide abysses,
Where, about the earth's three thousandth summer,
Passed divine Ulysses?

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,—
But of elm-wood many a massive splinter,
Good ghost stories, and a classic rhyme,

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,—
Minna mine with the brown, brown eyes:
Red are the roses under his feet,

Clear the blue of his windless skies.
Pleasant it is in a boat to glide

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,
Hesper mirrored in brown, brown eyes.

Summer is fleet, ah! summer is fleet,-
Minna mine with the brown, brown eyes:
Onward travel his flying feet,

And the mystical colours of autumn rise.
Clouds will gather round evening star―
Sorrow may silence our first gay rhyme,-
The river's swift ripples flow tardier far

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
Imagine such a rum thing),
It is the phantom of my Aunt,
Who ran away or something.

It is the very worst of bores:
(My Aunt was most delightful).
It prowls about the corridors,
And utters noises frightful.

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,
Was the most charming vixen
That ever this poor sex of ours
Delighted to play tricks on.

Yes, that's her portrait on the wall,
In quaint old-fangled bodice:
Her eyes are blue-her waist is small-
A ghost! Pooh, pooh,—a goddess!

A fine patrician shape, to suit
My dear old father's sister-
Lips softly curved, a dainty foot:
Happy the man that kissed her!

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,
Could possibly expect her

To take to dissipated ways
And plague us as a spectre?

Mortimer Collins.

O'

A CONCEIT

H, touch that rose-bud! it will bloom-
My lady fair!

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
Just like a rose

That opens at a lady's will;

Its bloom is always yours, until

You bid it close.

Mortimer Collins.