This snug little chamber is cramm'd in all nooks With worthless old knick-knacks and silly old books, And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, Crack'd bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china, (all crack'd,) Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed; A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see; What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require, Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp; By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; A mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 'Tis a murderous knife to toast m.u.f.fins upon.

Long, long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, There's one that I love and I cherish the best: For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottom'd chair.

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shoulder'd, worm-eaten seat, With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when f.a.n.n.y sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottom'd chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, A thrill must have pa.s.s'd through your wither'd old arms!

I look'd, and I long'd, and I wish'd in despair; I wish'd myself turn'd to a cane-bottom'd chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloom'd in my cane-bottom'd chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since, Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince; Saint f.a.n.n.y, my patroness sweet I declare, The queen of my heart and my cane-bottom'd chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, In the silence of night as I sit here alone-- I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-- My f.a.n.n.y I see in my cane-bottom'd chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room; She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom; So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, And yonder she sits in my cane-bottom'd chair.

PISCATOR AND PISCATRIX.

LINES WRITTEN TO AN ALb.u.m PRINT.

As on this pictured page I look, This pretty tale of line and hook As though it were a novel-book Amuses and engages: I know them both, the boy and girl; She is the daughter of the Earl, The lad (that has his hair in curl) My lord the County's page has.

A pleasant place for such a pair!

The fields lie basking in the glare; No breath of wind the heavy air Of lazy summer quickens.

Hard by you see the castle tall; The village nestles round the wall, As round about the hen its small Young progeny of chickens.

It is too hot to pace the keep; To climb the turret is too steep; My lord the earl is dozing deep, His noonday dinner over: The postern-warder is asleep (Perhaps they've bribed him not to peep): And so from out the gate they creep, And cross the fields of clover.

Their lines into the brook they launch; He lays his cloak upon a branch, To guarantee his Lady Blanche 's delicate complexion: He takes his rapier, from his haunch, That beardless doughty champion staunch; He'd drill it through the rival's paunch That question'd his affection!

O heedless pair of sportsmen slack!

You never mark, though trout or jack, Or little foolish stickleback, Your baited snares may capture.

What care has SHE for line and hook?

She turns her back upon the brook, Upon her lover's eyes to look In sentimental rapture.

O loving pair! as thus I gaze Upon the girl who smiles always, The little hand that ever plays Upon the lover's shoulder; In looking at your pretty shapes, A sort of envious wish escapes (Such as the Fox had for the Grapes) The Poet your beholder.

To be brave, handsome, twenty-two; With nothing else on earth to do, But all day long to bill and coo: It were a pleasant calling.

And had I such a partner sweet; A tender heart for mine to beat, A gentle hand my clasp to meet;-- I'd let the world flow at my feet, And never heed its brawling.

THE ROSE UPON MY BALCONY.

The rose upon my balcony the morning air perfuming, Was leafless all the winter time and pining for the spring; You ask me why her breath is sweet, and why her cheek is blooming, It is because the sun is out and birds begin to sing.

The nightingale, whose melody is through the greenwood ringing, Was silent when the boughs were bare and winds were blowing keen: And if, Mamma, you ask of me the reason of his singing, It is because the sun is out and all the leaves are green.

Thus each performs his part, Mamma; the birds have found their voices, The blowing rose a flush, Mamma, her bonny cheek to dye; And there's sunshine in my heart, Mamma, which wakens and rejoices, And so I sing and blush, Mamma, and that's the reason why.

RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.

"Quand vous serez bien vielle, le soir a la chandelle a.s.sise aupres du feu devisant et filant, Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard m'a celebre du temps que j'etois belle."

Some winter night, shut snugly in Beside the f.a.got in the hall, I think I see you sit and spin, Surrounded by your maidens all.

Old tales are told, old songs are sung, Old days come back to memory; You say, "When I was fair and young, A poet sang of me!"

There's not a maiden in your hall, Though tired and sleepy ever so, But wakes, as you my name recall, And longs the history to know.

And, as the piteous tale is said, Of lady cold and lover true, Each, musing, carries it to bed, And sighs and envies you!

"Our lady's old and feeble now,"

They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, And yet she spurn'd her lover's vow, And heartless left him to despair: The lover lies in silent earth, No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth, With threescore and ten years!"

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those, But wherefore yield me to despair, While yet the poet's bosom glows, While yet the dame is peerless fair!

Sweet lady mine! while yet 'tis time Requite my pa.s.sion and my truth, And gather in their blushing prime The roses of your youth!

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover: And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout, And noise and humming: They've hush'd the Minster bell: The organ 'gins to swell: She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, With modest eyes downcast: She comes--she's here--she's past-- May heaven go with her!