TO “LYDIA LANGUISH"

"Il me faut des émotions."

-BLANCHE AMORY

"whether I,

You
ask me, Lydia,
If you refuse my suit, shall die."
(Now pray don't let this hurt you!)
Although the time be out of joint,
I should not think a bodkin's point
The sole resource of virtue;

Nor shall I, though your mood endure,
Attempt a final Water-cure

Except against my wishes;

For I respectfully decline

To dignify the Serpentine,

And make hors-d'œuvres for fishes;

But if you ask me whether I

Composedly can go,
Without a look, without a sigh,
Why, then I answer-No.

"You are assured," you sadly say (If in this most considerate way To treat my suit your will is), That I shall "quickly find as fair Some new Neæra's tangled hairSome easier Amaryllis."

I cannot promise to be cold
If smiles are kind as yours of old
On lips of later beauties;
Nor can I, if I would, forget
The homage that is Nature's debt,

While man has social duties;

But if you ask shall I prefer

To you I honour so,

A somewhat visionary Her,
I answer truly-No.

You fear, you frankly add, "to find
In me too late the altered mind

That altering Time estranges." To this I make response that we (As physiologists agree)

Must have septennial changes; This is a thing beyond control, And it were best upon the whole

To try and find out whether We could not, by some means, arrange This not-to-be-avoided change

So as to change together:

But, had you asked me to allow
That you could ever grow
Less amiable than you are now,—
Emphatically-No.

-

But to be serious-if you care
To know how I shall really bear
This much-discussed rejection,

I answer you.

As feeling men
Behave, in best romances, when
You outrage their affection;—
With that gesticulatory woe,
By which, as melodramas show,
Despair is indicated;

Enforced by all the liquid grief
Which hugest pocket-handkerchief
Has ever simulated;

And when, arrived so far, you say
In tragic accents "Go,"

Then, Lydia, then . . . I still shall stay,
And firmly answer-No

C

A GAGE D'AMOUR

(HORACE, III. 8)

"Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis
miraris?"

HARLES,—for it seems you wish to
know,-

You wonder what could scare me so,
And why, in this long-locked bureau,
With trembling fingers,-

With tragic air, I now replace

This ancient web of yellow lace,

Among whose faded folds the trace
Of perfume lingers.

Friend of my youth, severe as true,
I guess the train your thoughts pursue;
But this my state is nowise due

To indigestion ;

I had forgotten it was there,

A scarf that Some-one used to wear.

Hinc illæ lacrima,—so spare

Your cynic question.

Some-one who is not girlish now,
And wed long since. We meet and bow;
I don't suppose our broken vow

Affects us keenly;

Yet, trifling though my act appears,

Your Sternes would make it ground for tears;—

One can't disturb the dust of years,

And smile serenely.

"My golden locks" are gray and chill, For hers, let them be sacred still;

-

But yet, I own, a boyish thrill

Went dancing through me,
Charles, when I held yon yellow lace;
For, from its dusty hiding-place,
Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face
That beckoned to me.

We shut our heart up, nowadays,
Like some old music-box that plays
Unfashionable airs that raise

Alas,

Derisive pity;

a nothing starts the spring;

And lo, the sentimental thing

At once commences quavering
Its lover's ditty.

Laugh, if you like. The boy in me,--
The boy that was,-revived to see

The fresh young smile that shone when she,
Of old, was tender.