I fancy her reigning, - -a Beauty, - a Toast,

Where BLADUD's medicinal cruse is;

And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast, The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis.

He says she was 'VENUS.' I doubt it. Beside
(Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is !),

His 'little' could scarce be to Venus applied,
If fitly to Molly Trefusis.

No, no. It was HEBE he had in his mind;

And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is,

And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled, — you 'll find, Was certainly Molly Trefusis!

Then he calls her 'a MUSE.' To the charge I reply That we all of us know what a Muse is;

But a GRACE.' There I grant he was probably right (The rest but a verse-making ruse is);

It was all that was graceful, intangible, — light,

The beauty of Molly Trefusis!

Was she wooed? Who can hesitate much about that,

Assuredly more than obtuse is;

For how could the poet have written so pat

'My dear little Molly Trefusis!'

And was wed? That I think we must plainly infer, Since of suitors the common excuse is

To take to them Wives. So it happened to her, 'little Molly Trefusis!'

Of course,

To the Bard? 'Tis unlikely, Apollo, you see,

In practical matters a goose is;

'T was a knight of the shire, and a hunting J. P., Who carried off Molly Trefusis !

And

you 'll find, I conclude, in the 'Gentleman's Mag., At the end, where the pick of the news is, 'On the (blank), at “the Bath," to Sir Hilary Brag, With a fortune, MISS MOLLY TREFUSIS.'

Thereupon - But no farther the student may pry:
Love's temple is dark as Eleusis;

So here, at the threshold, we part, you and I,

THEY dwell in the odor of camphor,
They stand in a Sheraton shrine,

6

They are warranted early editions,'

These worshipful tomes of mine;

In their creamy 'Oxford vellum,’

In their redolent 'crushed Levant,'
With their delicate watered linings,
They are jewels of price, I grant; -

Blind-tooled and morocco-jointed,

They have Zaehnsdorf's daintiest dress,
They are graceful, attenuate, polished,
But they gather the dust, no less; -

For the row that I prize is yonder,
Away on the unglazed shelves,
The bulged and bruised octavos,
The dear and dumpy twelves,

Montaigne with his sheepskin blistered,
And Howell the worse for wear,
And the worm-drilled Jesuit's Horace,
And the little old cropped Molière, —

And the Burton I bought for a florin,
And the Rabelais foxed and fleaed.
For the others I never have opened,
But those are the books I read.

UNE MARQUISE.

A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE.

'Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour.' - MOLIÈRE.

As you sit at your ease,

O Marquise!

And the men flock round your knees
Thick as bees,

Mute at every word you utter,

Servants to your least frill flutter,
'Belle Marquise !' —

As you sit there growing prouder,

And your ringed hands glance and go,
And your fan's 'frou-frou' sounds louder,
And your 'beaux yeux' flash and glow;
Ah, you used them on the Painter,

As you know,

For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter,
Bowing low,

Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy
That each sitter was not Circe,

Growing proud, I say, and prouder

To the crowd that come and go,
Dainty Deity of Powder,

Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau,
As you sit where lustres strike you,
Sure to please,

Do we love you most or like you,
'Belle Marquise.'

You are fair; O yes, we know it
Well, Marquise;

For he swore it, your last poet,
On his knees;

And he called all heaven to witness

Of his ballad and its fitness,

'Belle Marquise !' —

You were everything in ère

(With exception of sévère), -
You were cruelle and rebelle,

With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were 'Reine,' and 'Mère d'Amour;'
You were 'Vénus à Cythère;'
'Sappho mise en Pompadour,'

And 'Minerve en Parabère ;'
You had every grace of heaven
In your most angelic face,
With the nameless finer leaven

Lent of blood and courtly race;

And he added, too, in duty,
Ninon's wit and Bouffler's beauty;

And La Vallière's yeux veloutés

As your parcs, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottos, and rocailles;
As your Naiads and your trees ;-
Just as near the old ideal

Calm and ease,

As the Venus there, by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,
Is to grand Greek Aphroditè,

Sprung from Seas.

You are just a porcelain trifle,

'Belle Marquise !'

Just a thing of puffs and patches,

Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!

Just a pinky porcelain trifle,

'Belle Marquise !'

Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry,

Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless; but to marry,
No, Marquise!

For your Cupid, you have clipped him

Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him, And with chapeau-bras equipped him,

'Belle Marquise!'

Just to arm you through your wife-time,
And the languors of your life-time,

'Belle Marquise !'

Say, to trim your toilet tapers,

Or, to twist your hair in papers,

Or, to win you from the vapors;

As for these,

You are worth the love they give you,
Till a fairer face outlive you,