Kneel, undisturb'd, fair Saint!

Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute Like outcast spirits who wait And see through heaven's gate Angels within it.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin, That never has known the Barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win, This is the way that boys begin,-- Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains, Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window panes,-- Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pa.s.s, Grizzling hair the brain doth clear-- Then you know a boy is an a.s.s, Then you know the worth of a la.s.s, Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare, All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere Ever a month was pa.s.sed away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed, The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list, Or look away, and never be missed, Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead, G.o.d rest her bier, How I loved her twenty years syne!

Marian's married, but I sit here Alone and merry at Forty Year, Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

SORROWS OF WERTHER.

WERTHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter; Would you know how first he met her?

She was cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.

Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And, for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her.

So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his pa.s.sion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more was by it troubled.

Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and b.u.t.ter.

A DOE IN THE CITY.

Little KITTY LORIMER, Fair, and young, and witty, What has brought your ladyship Rambling to the City?

All the Stags in Capel Court Saw her lightly trip it; All the lads of Stock Exchange Twigg'd her m.u.f.f and tippet.

With a sweet perplexity, And a mystery pretty, Threading through Threadneedle Street, Trots the little KITTY.

What was my astonishment-- What was my compunction, When she reached the Offices Of the Didland Junction!

Up the Didland stairs she went, To the Didland door, Sir; Porters lost in wonderment, Let her pa.s.s before, Sir.

"Madam," says the old chief Clerk, "Sure we can't admit ye."

"Where's the Didland Junction deed?"

Dauntlessly says KITTY.

"If you doubt my honesty, Look at my receipt, Sir."

Up then jumps the old chief Clerk, Smiling as he meets her.

KITTY at the table sits (Whither the old Clerk leads her), "I deliver this," she says, "As my act and deed, Sir."

When I heard these funny words Come from lips so pretty; This, I thought, should surely be Subject for a ditty.

What! are ladies stagging it?

Sure, the more's the pity; But I've lost my heart to her,-- Naughty little KITTY.

THE LAST OF MAY.

(IN REPLY TO AN INVITATION DATED ON THE 1ST.)

By fate's benevolent award, Should I survive the day, I'll drink a b.u.mper with my lord Upon the last of May.

That I may reach that happy time The kindly G.o.ds I pray, For are not ducks and pease in prime Upon the last of May?

At thirty boards, 'twixt now and then, My knife and fork shall play; But better wine and better men I shall not meet in May.

And though, good friend, with whom I dine, Your honest head is gray, And, like this grizzled head of mine, Has seen its last of May;

Yet, with a heart that's ever kind, A gentle spirit gay, You've spring perennial in your mind, And round you make a May!

"AH, BLEAK AND BARREN WAS THE MOOR."

Ah! bleak and barren was the moor, Ah! loud and piercing was the storm, The cottage roof was shelter'd sure, The cottage hearth was bright and warm-- An orphan-boy the lattice pa.s.s'd, And, as he mark'd its cheerful glow, Felt doubly keen the midnight blast, And doubly cold the fallen snow.

They marked him as he onward press'd, With fainting heart and weary limb; Kind voices bade him turn and rest, And gentle faces welcomed him.

The dawn is up--the guest is gone, The cottage hearth is blazing still: Heaven pity all poor wanderers lone!

Hark to the wind upon the hill!