I may go farther and fare worse."

"Why, take him, then!" "But if he should Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good-- In drink and riot waste my all, And rout me out of house and hall?"

"Don't have him, then! But I've a plan To clear your doubts, if any can.

The bells a peal are ringing,--hark!

Go straight, and what they tell you mark.

If they say 'Yes!' wed, and be blest-- If 'No,' why--do as you think best."

The bells rang out a triple bob: Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, As thus she heard their burden go, "Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot!"

Bells were not then left to hang idle: A week,--and they rang for her bridal.

But, woe the while, they might as well Have rung the poor dame's parting knell.

The rosy dimples left her cheek, She lost her beauties plump and sleek; For Guillot oftener kicked than kissed, And backed his orders with his fist, Proving by deeds as well as words That servants make the worst of lords.

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, And speaks as angry women speak, With tiger looks and bosom swelling, Cursing the hour she took his telling.

To all, his calm reply was this,-- "I fear you've read the bells amiss: If they have lead you wrong in aught, Your wish, not they, inspired the thought.

Just go, and mark well what they say."

Off trudged the dame upon her way, And sure enough their chime went so,-- "Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot!"

"Too true," she cried, "there's not a doubt: What could my ears have been about?"

She had forgot, that, as fools think, The bell is ever sure to clink.

Song of the Ennuye.

I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted With Britain's mechanical din; Where I'm much too well known to be trusted, And plaguily pestered for tin; Where love has two eyes for your banker, And one chilly glance for yourself; Where souls can afford to be franker, But when they're well garnished with pelf.

I'm sick of the whole race of poets, Emasculate, misty, and fine; They brew their small-beer, and don't know its Distinction from full-bodied wine.

I'm sick of the prosers, that house up At drowsy St Stephen's,--ain't you?

I want some strong spirits to rouse up A good revolution or two!

I'm sick of a land, where each morrow Repeats the dull tale of to-day, Where you can't even find a new sorrow To chase your stale pleasures away.

I'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, Steam, railroads, gas, scrip, and consols; So I'll off where the golden Pacific Round Islands of Paradise rolls.

There the pa.s.sions shall revel unfettered, And the heart never speak but in truth, And the intellect, wholly unlettered, Be bright with the freedom of youth!

There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, Unsullied by vapour or soot, And there chimpanzees and opossums Shall playfully pelt me with fruit.

There I'll sit with my dark Orianas, In groves by the murmuring sea, And they'll give, as I suck the bananas, Their kisses, nor ask them from me.

They'll never torment me for sonnets, Nor bore me to death with their own; They'll ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, For milliners there are unknown.

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, My curtains the night and the stars, And my spirit shall gather new powers, Uncramped by conventional bars.

Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, My days shall be manfully sped; I shall know that I'm loved while I'm living, And be wept by fond eyes when I'm dead!

The Death of s.p.a.ce.

[Why has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "Death of s.p.a.ce"? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic ma.n.u.script to the Home Office? If unwonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of s.p.a.ce, And those that people all that dreary void, When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, And lash the empyrean with his tail.

And h.e.l.l, inflated with supernal wrath, Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, Infinity shall creep into her sh.e.l.l, Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, Nonenity, on circ.u.mambient wings, An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.

Caroline.

Lightsome, brightsome, cousin mine, Easy, breezy Caroline!

With thy locks all raven-shaded, From thy merry brow up-braided, And thine eyes of laughter full, Brightsome cousin mine!

Thou in chains of love hast bound me-- Wherefore dost thou flit around me, Laughter-loving Caroline?

When I fain would go to sleep In my easy-chair, Wherefore on my slumbers creep-- Wherefore start me from repose, Tickling of my hooked nose, Pulling of my hair?

Wherefore, then, if thou dost love me, So to words of anger move me, Corking of this face of mine, Tricksy cousin Caroline?

When a sudden sound I hear, Much my nervous system suffers, Shaking through and through.

Cousin Caroline, I fear, 'Twas no other, now, but you, Put gunpowder in the snuffers, Springing such a mine!

Yes, it was your tricksy self, Wicked-tricked little elf, Naughty Caroline!

Pins she sticks into my shoulder, Places needles in my chair, And, when I begin to scold her, Tosses back her combed hair, With so saucy-vexed an air, That the pitying beholder Cannot brook that I should scold her: Then again she comes, and bolder, Blacks anew this face of mine, Artful cousin Caroline!

Would she only say she'd love me, Winsome, tinsome Caroline, Unto such excess 'twould move me, Teazing, pleasing, cousin mine!

That she might the live-long day Undermine the snuffer-tray, Tickle still my hooked nose, Startle me from calm repose With her pretty persecution; Throw the tongs against my shins, Run me through and through with pins, Like a pierced cushion; Would she only say she'd love me, Darning-needles should not move me; But, reclining back, I'd say, "Dearest! there's the snuffer-tray; Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine!

Cork me, cousin Caroline!"

To a Forget-Me-Not,

FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM OF LOVE-TOKENS.

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye Didst once look up in shady spot, To whisper to the pa.s.ser-by Those tender words--Forget-me-not!

Though withered now, thou art to me The minister of gentle thought,-- And I could weep to gaze on thee, Love's faded pledge--Forget-me-not!

Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, And happiness arose unsought; When she, the whispering woods among, Gave me thy bloom--Forget-me-not!

That rapturous hour with that dear maid From memory's page no time shall blot, When, yielding to my kiss, she said, "Oh, Theodore--Forget me not!"

Alas for love! alas for truth!