There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui!" There is also a word that no one heard And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red, But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet, For ever through life the Curé goes With a smile on his kind old face With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE BRITISH MUSEUM "Sermons in stones." 'HO were you once? Could we but guess WHO We might perchance more boldly Define the patient weariness That sets your lips so coldly; You "lived," we know, for blame and fame ; You bore some more distinctive name Your pedestal should help us much. Vain hope!—not even deeds can last! Maybe with all your virtues past Endows. a TIGELLINUS! We seek it not; we should not find. To tell you wore, like most mankind, And held that things were false and true, As step by step you stumbled through You tried the cul-de-sac of Thought; 'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come That howso Time should garble Those deeds of yours when you were dumb, At least you'd live-in Marble ; You smiled to think that arter days, At least, in Bust or Statue, (We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze, Not quite incurious, at you. 1879. We gaze; we pity you, be sure ! In truth, Death's worst inaction Than nameless petrifaction; MOLLY TREFUSIS "Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two, For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,- So he wrote, the old bard of an “old Maga zine"; As a study it not without use is, If we wonder a moment who she may have been, This same "little Molly Trefusis!" She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre"; Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis. |