THE ENCHANTED ROSE

"O where dost thou trip it," the patriarch said, "A Rose in thy bosom so daintily laid?

A pilgrim, whose shadow extends to the tomb, Would gaze on its beauty, would breathe its perfume!"

"O raise not thy hand," cried the maid, "nor suppose I ever can part with this beautiful Rose; The bloom is a gift of the fays, who declare it Will shield me from sorrow as long as I wear it.

And sigh not, old man, such a doleful 'heigh-ho,'

Dost think I possess not the will to say, 'No'?

And shake not thy head, I could pitiless be Should supplicants come even younger than thee."

The damsel pa.s.s'd on with a confident smile, The old man extended his walk for a while, His musings were trite, and their burthen, forsooth, The wisdom of age, and the folly of youth.

Noon comes, and noon goes, paler twilight is there; Rosy day dons the garb of a Penitent Fair; The patriarch strolls in the path of the maid, Where cornfields are ripe, and awaiting the blade.

And Echo was mute to the patriarch's tread,- "How tranquil is Nature!" that patriarch said; He onward advances, where boughs overshade A lonelier spot, and the barley is laid.

He gazes around, not a creature is there, No sound upon earth, and no voice in the air; But fading there lies a poor bloom that he knows, Neglected, unheeded-a beautiful Rose.

CIRc.u.mSTANCE THE ORANGE

It ripen'd by the river banks, Where, musk and moonlight aiding, Dons Whiskerandos play sad pranks, Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish maiden it was pluck'd, Who broke some hearts, they say, then, By Saxon sweetheart it was suck'd,- Who threw the peel away then.

How little thought the London Fair, Or dark-eyed Girl of Seville, That _I_ should reel upon that peel, And find my proper level!

A WISH

To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, A pair of child-lovers I've seen, More than once were they there, and the years of the two, When added, might number thirteen.

They sat on the grave which had never a stone The name of the dead to determine, It was Life paying Death a brief visit-alone A notable text for a sermon.

They tenderly prattled,-what was it they said?

The turf on that hillock was new: O! kenn'd ye, poor little ones, aught of the dead, Or could he be heedful of you?

I wish to believe, and believe it I must, That a father beneath them was laid: I wish to believe,-I will take it on trust, That father knew all that they said.

My Own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child; And some day a true-love your heart will engage When on earth I my last may have smil'd.

Then visit my grave, like a good little la.s.s, Where'er it may happen to be, And if any daisies should peer through the gra.s.s, Be sure they are kisses from me.

And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For strangers and gossips to see, But come with your lover as these lovers came, And talk to him gaily of me.

And while you are smiling, your father will smile Such a sweet little daughter to have: But mind, O yes! mind you are merry the while- _I wish you to visit my grave_.

MY LIFE IS A-

At Worthing an exile from Geraldine G-, How aimless, how wretched an exile is he!

Promenades are not even prunella and leather To lovers, if lovers can't foot them together.

He flies the parade, sad by ocean he stands, He traces a "Geraldine G" on the sands.

But a G, tho' her lov'd patronymic is Green, "I will not betray thee, my own Geraldine."

The fortunes of men have a time and a tide, And Fate, the old fury, will not be denied; That name was, of course, soon wip'd out by the sea,- And she jilted the exile, did Geraldine G-.

They meet, but they never have spoken since that,- He hopes she is happy-he knows she is fat; _She_ woo'd on the sh.o.r.e, now is wed in the Strand, And _I_-it was I wrote her name on the sand!

VANITY FAIR

"Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, all is vanity."

ECCLESIASTES.

"Vanitas Vanitatum" has rung in the ears Of gentle and simple for thousands of years; The wail is still heard, yet its notes never scare Or simple, or gentle, from Vanity Fair.

This Fair has allurements alike to engage The dimples of youth and the wrinkles of age; Though mirth may be feigning, though sheen may be glare, The gingerbread's gilded in Vanity Fair.

Old Dives there rolls in his chariot of state, There Jack takes his Joan at a lowlier rate, St Giles', St James', from alley and square, Send votaries plenty to Vanity Fair.

That goal would be vain where the guerdon was dross, So come whence they may they must come by a loss: The tree was enticing,-its branches are bare; Heigh-ho! for the promise of Vanity Fair.

My son, the sham G.o.ddess I warn thee to shun, Beware of the beautiful temptress, my son; Her blandishments fly,-or, despising the snare, Go laugh at the follies of Vanity Fair.

That stupid old Dives, once honest enough, His honesty sold for Stars, Ribbons, and Stuff; And Joan's pretty face has been clouded with care Since Jack bought _her_ ribbons at Vanity Fair.

Contemptible Dives!-too credulous Joan!

Yet each has a Vanity Fair of his own;- My son, you have yours, but you need not despair, Myself, I've a weakness for Vanity Fair.