He could not know in Pimlico, As little she in Seville, That _I_ should reel upon that peel, And--wish them at the devil!

_Frederick Locker-Lampson._

ELEGY

The jackals prowl, the serpents hiss In what was once Persepolis.

Proud Babylon is but a trace Upon the desert's dusty face.

The topless towers of Ilium Are ashes. Judah's harp is dumb.

The fleets of Nineveh and Tyre Are down with Davy Jones, Esquire And all the oligarchies, kings, And potentates that ruled these things Are gone! But cheer up; don't be sad; Think what a lovely time they had!

_Arthur Guiterman._

OUR TRAVELLER

If thou would'st stand on Etna's burning brow, With smoke above, and roaring flame below; And gaze adown that molten gulf reveal'd, Till thy soul shudder'd and thy senses reel'd: If thou wouldst beard Niag'ra in his pride, Or stem the billows of Propontic tide; Scale all alone some dizzy Alpine _haut_, And shriek "Excelsior!" among the snow: Would'st tempt all deaths, all dangers that may be-- Perils by land, and perils on the sea; This vast round world, I say, if thou wouldst view it-- Then, why the d.i.c.kens don't you go and do it?

_Henry Cholmondeley-Pennell._

OPTIMISM

Be brave, faint heart, The dough shall yet be cake; Be strong, weak heart, The b.u.t.ter is to come.

Some cheerful chance will right the apple-cart, The devious pig will gain the lucky mart, Loquacity be dumb,-- Collapsed the fake.

Be brave, faint heart!

Be strong, weak heart, The path will be made plain; Be brave, faint heart, The bore will crawl away.

The upside down will turn to right side up, The stiffened lip compel that slipping cup, The doldrums of the day Be not in vain.

Be strong, weak heart!

Be brave, faint heart, The jelly means to jell; Be strong, weak heart, The hopes are in the malt.

The wrong side in will yet turn right side out, The long-time lost come down yon cormorant spout.

Life still is worth her salt: What ends well's well.

Be brave, faint heart!

_Newton Mackintosh._

THE DECLARATION

Twas late, and the gay company was gone, And light lay soft on the deserted room From alabaster vases, and a scent Of orange-leaves, and sweet verbena came Through the unshutter'd window on the air.

And the rich pictures with their dark old tints Hung like a twilight landscape, and all things Seem'd hush'd into a slumber. Isabel, The dark-eyed, spiritual Isabel Was leaning on her harp, and I had stay'd To whisper what I could not when the crowd Hung on her look like worshipers. I knelt, And with the fervor of a lip unused To the cool breath of reason, told my love.

There was no answer, and I took the hand That rested on the strings, and press'd a kiss Upon it unforbidden--and again Besought her, that this silent evidence That I was not indifferent to her heart, Might have the seal of one sweet syllable.

I kiss'd the small white fingers as I spoke, And she withdrew them gently, and upraised Her forehead from its resting-place, and look'd Earnestly on me--_She had been asleep!_

_N. P. Willis._

HE CAME TO PAY

The editor sat with his head in his hands And his elbows at rest on his knees; He was tired of the ever-increasing demands On his time, and he panted for ease.

The clamor for copy was scorned with a sneer, And he sighed in the lowest of tones: "Won't somebody come with a dollar to cheer The heart of Emanuel Jones?"

Just then on the stairway a footstep was heard And a rap-a-tap loud at the door, And the flickering hope that had been long deferred Blazed up like a beacon once more; And there entered a man with a cynical smile That was fringed with a stubble of red, Who remarked, as he tilted a sorry old tile To the back of an average head:

"I have come here to pay"--Here the editor cried: "You're as welcome as flowers in spring!

Sit down in this easy armchair by my side, And excuse me awhile till I bring A lemonade dashed with a little old wine And a dozen cigars of the best....

Ah! Here we are! This, I a.s.sure you, is fine; Help yourself, most desirable guest."

The visitor drank with a relish, and smoked Till his face wore a satisfied glow, And the editor, beaming with merriment, joked In a joyous, spontaneous flow; And then, when the stock of refreshments was gone, His guest took occasion to say, In accents distorted somewhat by a yawn, "My errand up here is to pay--"

But the generous scribe, with a wave of his hand, Put a stop to the speech of his guest, And brought in a melon, the finest the land Ever bore on its generous breast; And the visitor, wearing a singular grin, Seized the heaviest half of the fruit, And the juice, as it ran in a stream from his chin, Washed the mud of the pike from his boot.

Then, mopping his face on a favorite sheet Which the scribe had laid carefully by, The visitor lazily rose to his feet With the dreariest kind of a sigh, And he said, as the editor sought his address, In his books to discover his due: "I came here to pay--my respects to the press, And to borrow a dollar of you!"

_Parmenas Mix._

THE FORLORN ONE

Ah! why those piteous sounds of woe, Lone wanderer of the dreary night?

Thy gushing tears in torrents flow, Thy bosom pants in wild affright!

And thou, within whose iron breast Those frowns austere too truly tell, Mild pity, heaven-descended guest, Hath never, never deign'd to dwell.

"That rude, uncivil touch forego,"

Stern despot of a fleeting hour!

Nor "make the angels weep" to know The fond "fantastic tricks" of power!