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You said you were sure it would kill you,

If ever your husband looked so ;
And you will not apostatise,—will you ?

My own Araminta, say “No!”
When I heard I was going abroad, love,

I thought I was going to die;
We walked arm-in-arm to the road, love,

We looked arm-in-arm to the sky;
And I said, “When a foreign postilion

Has hurried me off to the Po, Forget not Medora Trevilian :

My own Araminta, say "No!'" We parted ! but sympathy's fetters

Reach far over valley and hill ; I muse o'er your exquisite letters,

And feel that your heart is mine still ;
And he who would share it with me, love,

The richest of treasures below,-
If he's not what Orlando should be, love,

My own Araminta, say “No!”
If he wears a top-boot in his wooing,

If he comes to you riding a cob,
If he talks of his baking or brewing,

If he puts up his feet on the hob,
If he ever drinks port after dinner,

If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself “ Thompson” or “ Skinner,

My own Araminta, say “No !”
If he studies the news in the papers

While you are preparing the tea,
If he talks of the damps or the vapours

While moonlight lies soft on the sea,


If he's sleepy while you are capricious,

If he has not a musical “Oh !".
If he does not call Werther delicious,-

My own Araminta, say “No ! "
If he ever sets foot in the City

Among the stock brokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses,

If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,

My own Araminta, say “No!" If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty,

Hills, valleys, rocks, water, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowers,

My own Araminta, say “No!”. He must walk-like a god of old story

Come down from the home of his rest; He must smile-like the sun in his glory

On the bud, he loves ever the best ; And oh ! from its ivory portal

Like music his soft speech must flow ! If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal,

My own Araminta, say No!” Don't listen to tales of his bounty,

Don't hear what they say of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county,

Don't calculate what he is worth ;

But give him a theme to write verse on,

And see if he turns out his toe; If he's only an excellent person,

My own Araminta, say “No !”


SOME years ago, ere time and taste

Had turned our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel waste,

And roads as little known as scurvy, The man who lost his way, between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket, Was always shown across the green,

And guided to the Parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path,

Through clean-clipt rows of box and myrtle ; And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,

Upon the parlour steps collected, Wagged all their tails, and seemed to say

“Our master knows you—you're expected."

Up rose the Reverend Dr. Brown,

Up rose the Doctor's winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down,

Her husband clasped his ponderous Barrows Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or Papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner. If, when he reached his journey's end,

And warmed himself in Court or College, He had not gained an honest friend

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge; If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor, Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,

And not the Vicarage, nor the Vicar: His talk was like a stream, which runs

With rapid change from rocks to roses : It slipped from politics to puns,

It passed from Mahomet to Moses ; Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses, And ending with some precept deep

For dressing eels or shoeing horses. He was a shrewd and sound Divine,

Of loud Dissent the mortal terror; And when, by dint of page and line,

He 'stablished Truth, or startled Error, The Baptist found him far too deep;

The Deist sighed with saving sorrow; And the lean Levite went to sleep,

And dreamed of tasting pork to-morrow. His sermon never said or showed

That Earth is foul, that Heaven is gracious, Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome or from Athanasius :


And sure a righteous zeal inspired [them,

The hand and head that penned and planned
For all who understood admired,

And some who did not understand them.
He wrote, too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses,
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,

And hints to noble Lords-and nurses ;
True histories of last year's ghost,

Lines to a ringlet, or a turban,
And trifles for the Morning Post,

And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking;
He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking ;
And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning,
That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improved by burning.
And he was kind, and loved to sit

In the low hut or garnished cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage:
At his approach complaint grew mild ;

And when his hand unbarred the shutter,
The clammy lips of fever smiled

The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar, or of Venus ;
From him I learnt the rule of three,

Cat's cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus

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