A _preux chevalier_, and but lately a cripple, He met with his hurt where a regiment fell, But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple A b.u.mper to "Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well."

Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded, All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse; But Love never looked on such matters as they did,-- She took the brave soldier for better or worse.

And here is the home of her fondest election,-- The walls may be worn but the ivy is green; And here has she tenderly twined her affection Around a true soldier who bled for his Queen.

See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows; What child is that spelling the epitaphs there?

To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes New zest in thanksgiving--fresh fervour in prayer.

Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken The doors of that church, and that tranquil abode; His place then no longer will know him--but, hearken, The widow and orphan appeal to their G.o.d.

Much peace will be hers! "If our lot must be lowly, Resemble thy father, though with us no more;"

And only on days that are high or are holy, She will show him the cross that her warrior wore.

So taught, he will rather take after his father, And wear a long sword to our enemies' loss; Till some day or other he'll bring to his mother Victoria's gift--the Victoria Cross!

And still she'll be charming, though ringlet and dimple Perchance may have lost their peculiar spell; And at times she will quote, with complacency simple, The compliments paid to the Nymph of the Well.

And then will her darling, like all good and true ones, Console and sustain her,--the weak and the strong;-- And some day or other two black eyes or blue ones Will smile on his path as he journeys along.

Wherever they win him, whoever his Phoebe, Of course of all beauties she must be the _belle_, If at Tunbridge he chance to fall in with a Hebe, He will not fall out with a draught from the Well.

ST. GEORGE'S, HANOVER SQUARE.

Dans le bonheur de nos meilleurs amis nous trouvons souvent quelque chose qui ne nous plait pris entierement.

She pa.s.sed up the aisle on the arm of her sire, A delicate lady in bridal attire,-- Fair emblem of virgin simplicity;-- Half London was there, and, my word, there were few, Who stood by the altar, or hid in a pew, But envied Lord Nigel's felicity.

O beautiful Bride, still so meek in thy splendour, So frank in thy love, and its trusting surrender, Departing you leave us the town dim!

May happiness wing to thy bosom, unsought, And Nigel, esteeming his bliss as he ought, Prove worthy thy worship,--confound him!

SORRENTO.

Sorrento, stella d'amore.--VINCENZO DA FILICAIA.

Sorrento! Love's Star! Land Of myrtle and vine, I come from a far land To kneel at thy shrine; Thy brows wear a garland, Oh, weave one for mine!

Thine image, fair city, Smiles fair in the sea,-- A youth sings a pretty Song, tempered with glee,-- The mirth and the ditty Are mournful to me.

Ah, sea boy, how strange is The carol you sing!

Let Psyche, who ranges The gardens of Spring, Remember the changes December will bring.

MARCH, 1862.

JANET.

I see her portrait hanging there, Her face, but only half as fair, And while I scan it, Old thoughts come back, by new thoughts met-- She smiles. I never can forget The smile of Janet.

A matchless grace of head and hand, Can Art pourtray an air more grand?

It cannot--can it?

And then the brow, the lips, the eyes-- You look as if you could despise Devotion, Janet.

I knew her as a child, and said She ought to have inhabited A brighter planet: Some seem more meet for angel wings Than Mother Nature's ap.r.o.n strings,-- And so did Janet.

She grew in beauty, and in pride, Her waist was slim, and once I tried, In sport, to span it, At Church, with only this result, They threatened with _quicunque vult_ Both me and Janet.

She fairer grew, till Love became In me a very ardent flame, With Faith to fan it: Alas, I played the fool, and she ...

The fault of both lay much with me, But more with Janet.

For Janet chose a cruel part,-- How many win a tender heart And then trepan it!

She left my bark to swim or sink, Nor seemed to care--and yet, I think, You liked me, Janet.

The old old tale! you know the rest-- The heart that slumbered in her breast Was soft as granite: Who breaks a heart, and then omits To gather up its broken bits, Is heartless, Janet.

I'm wiser now--for when I curse My Fate, a voice cries, "Bad or worse You must not ban it: Take comfort, you are quits, for if You mourn a Love, stark dead and stiff, Why so does Janet."

BeRANGER.

Cast adrift on this sphere Where my fellows were born, None gave me a tear, I was weakly--forlorn.

My plaint for their spurning To heaven took wing,-- Sweet voices said, yearning, "Sing, Little One, sing!"

My lot, as I rove, Is to sing for the throng;-- And will not they love The poor Child for his song?

THE BEAR PIT.

AT THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.

We liked the bear's serio-comical face, As he lolled with a lazy, a lumbering grace; Said Slyboots to me--(just as if _she_ had none), "Papa, let's give Bruin a bit of your bun."