HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON. A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN. FLOWERS, that have died upon my Sweet For lo, a garden-place I found, Well filled of leaves, and stilled of sound, Well flowered, with red fruit marvellous; And 'twixt the shining trunks would flit Tall knights and silken maids, or sit With faces bent and amorous; There, in the heart thereof, and crowned With woodbine and amaracus, My Love I found. Alone she walked, -ah, well I wis, My heart leapt up for joy of this! Then when I called to her her name, The name, that like a pleasant thing Men's lips remember, murmuring, At once across the sward she came, – Full fain she seemed, my own dear maid, Where hast thou stayed?' 'Where hast thou stayed?' she asked as though The long years were an hour ago; But I spake not, nor answerèd, And in her clear cheek's changeless red, That in this place the Hours were dead, 'This is well done,' she said, 'in thee, O Love, that thou art come to me, To this green garden glorious; For here all things are fair to us, 'No formless Future blurs the sky; At 'Heaven' she ceased; - and lifted up With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow; Ah, God, — the hard pain fade and melt, The lit leaves laughed, And now, sky shook, and lo, - Ye that indeed are dead, I am right fain to make - Out from my pain a pillow, and to take And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR. 'What's not destroyed by Time's devouring hand? Where's Troy- and where's the May-pole in the Strand?' BRAMSTON'S ART OF POLITICS.' IT stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, It is battered and tattered, — it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails, Like a canvas by Wilkie, that old Sedan chair! See, here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes Where's Troy? says the poet! Look,-under the seat, And yet can't you fancy a face in the frame Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited and waited, that old Sedan chair! Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Heu! quantum mutata, I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! 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 magazine; As a study it not without use is, If we wonder a moment who she may have been, She was Cornish. We know that at once by the 'Tre;' If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea And she lived in the era of patches and bows, And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot (How charming that old-fashioned puce is !) All blooming in laces, fal lals and what not, At the PUMP ROOM, - Miss Molly Trefusis. |