HENRY AUSTIN DOBSON.

A SONG OF ANGIOLA IN HEAVEN.

FLOWERS, that have died upon my Sweet
Lulled by the rhythmic dancing beat
Of her young bosom under you, -
Now will I show you such a thing
As never, through thick buds of spring,
Betwixt the daylight and the dew,
The Bird whose being no man knows —
The voice that waketh all night through,
Tells to the Rose.

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,
And asked ever as she came,

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,
For, looking in her eyes, I saw
A light not lit of mortal law;

And in her clear cheek's changeless red,
And sweet, unshaken speaking found

That in this place the Hours were dead,
And Time was bound.

'This is well done,' she said, 'in thee,

O Love, that thou art come to me,

To this green garden glorious;
Now truly shall our life be sped
In joyance and all goodlihed,

For here all things are fair to us,
And none with burden is oppressed,
And none is poor or piteous,
For here is Rest.

'No formless Future blurs the sky;
Men mourn not here, with dull dead eye,
By shrouded shapes of Yesterday;
Betwixt the Coming and the Past
The flawless life hangs fixen fast
In one unwearying To-Day,
That darkens not; for Sin is shriven,
Death from the doors is thrust away,
And here is Heaven.'

At 'Heaven' she ceased; - and lifted up
Her fair head like a flower-cup,

With rounded mouth, and eyes aglow;

Ah, God, — the hard pain fade and melt,
And past things change to painted show;
The song of quiring birds outbroke;

The lit leaves laughed,

And now,

sky shook, and lo,

- Ye that indeed are dead,
Now for all waiting hours,
Well am I comforted;
For of a surety, now, I see,
That, without dim distress
Of tears, or weariness,
My Lady, verily, awaiteth me;
So that until with Her I be,
For my dear Lady's sake

I am right fain to make

-

Out from my pain a pillow, and to take
Grief for a golden garment unto me;
Knowing that I, at last, shall stand
In that green garden-land,

And, in the holding of my dear Love's hand
Forget the grieving and the misery.

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,
Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves.

It once was the pride of the gay and the fair,
But now 't is a ruin, that old Sedan chair!

It is battered and tattered, — it little avails

That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails,
For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square,

Like a canvas by Wilkie, that old Sedan chair!

See, here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes
For the poles of the bearers — when once there were poles;
It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair,
As the birds have discovered, that old Sedan chair!

Where's Troy? says the poet! Look,-under the seat,
Is a nest with four eggs, - 't is the favored retreat
Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear,
Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!

And yet

can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window, - some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair?

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands,
With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands,
With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire,
As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league
It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;
Stout fellows, but prone, on a question of fare,
To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played;
It has waited by Heidegger's Grand Masquerade;
For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,

It has waited

and waited, that old Sedan chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

Heu! quantum mutata, I say as I go.

It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though!
We must furbish it up, and despatch it, 'With Care,'-
To a Fine-Art Museum - that old Sedan chair!

MOLLY TREFUSIS.

'Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,
And ten is the number of Muses;

For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
My dear little Mollie Trefusis!'

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,
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.

And she lived in the era of patches and bows,
Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is;
For they needed (I hope) but her natural rose,
The lilies of Molly Trefusis.

And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit
That the evidence hard to produce is)
With Bath in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit, -
This dangerous Molly Trefusis.

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.