Part 9 (2/2)
For answer I was fain to sink To what most swains would say and think Were Beauty present: ”Don't mention such a simple act-- A trouble? not the least. In fact It's rather pleasant.”
I trust that love will never tease Poor little Di, or prove that he's A graceless rover.
She's happy now as _Mrs. Smith_-- But less polite when walking with Her chosen lover.
Heigh-ho! Although no moral clings To Di's soft eyes, and sandal strings, We've had our quarrels!-- I think that Smith is thought an a.s.s, I know that when they walk in gra.s.s She wears balmorals.
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD.
The characters of great and small Come ready made, we can't bespeak one; Their sides are many, too,--and all (Except ourselves) have got a weak one.
Some sanguine people love for life-- Some love their hobby till it flings them.-- And many love a pretty wife For love of the _eclat_ she brings them!
We all have secrets--you have one Which may not be your charming spouse's,-- We all lock up a skeleton In some grim chamber of our houses; Familiars who exhaust their days And nights in probing where our smart is, And who, excepting spiteful ways, Are quiet, confidential ”parties.”
We hug the phantom we detest, We rarely let it cross our portals: It is a most exacting guest,-- Now are we not afflicted mortals?
Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight, As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night, On shaking knees, to see his spectre.
Old Dives fears a pauper fate, And h.o.a.rding is his thriving pa.s.sion; Some piteous souls antic.i.p.ate A waistcoat straiter than the fas.h.i.+on.
She, childless, pines,--that lonely wife, And hidden tears are bitter shedding; And he may tremble all his life, And die,--but not of that he's dreading.
Ah me, the World! how fast it spins!
The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles; They dance, and stir it for our sins, And we must drain it for our troubles.
We toil, we groan,--the cry for love Mounts upward from this seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER, infinite in pity.
When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, When sunbeams play, when shadows darken, One inmate of our dwelling keeps A ghastly carnival--but hearken!
How dry the rattle of those bones!-- The sound was not to make you start meant,-- Stand by! Your humble servant owns The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.
THE VICTORIA CROSS.
A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
She gave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,-- O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas!
But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,-- ”Thy health, pretty maiden!”--he emptied the gla.s.s.
He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her, The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed; Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter, We found him eternally pledging the maid.
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