Nay, let my words be so discreet,
That, keeping Chance in view,
Whatever after fate you meet
A part may still be true.

Let others wish you mere good looks,-
Your sex is always fair;

Or to be writ in Fortune's books,—
She's rich who has to spare:

I wish you but a heart that's kind,
A head that's sound and clear;
(Yet let the heart be not too blind,
The head not too severe !)

A joy of life, a frank delight;
A not-too-large desire;

And if you fail to find a Knight-
At least... a trusty Squire.

HOUSEHOLD ART

'MINE be a cot," for the hours of play,

Of the kind that is built by Miss GREEN

AWAY;

Where the walls are low, and the roofs are red,
And the birds are gay in the blue o'erhead;
And the dear little figures, in frocks and frills,
Go roaming about at their own sweet wills,
And "play with the pups," and "reprove the
calves,"

And do nought in the world (but Work) by halves,
From "Hunt the Slipper" and "Riddle-me-ree"
To watching the cat in the apple-tree.

O Art of the Household!

Men may prate

Of their ways "intense" and Italianate,

They may soar on their wings of sense, and float To the au delà and the dim remote,

Till the last sun sink in the last-lit West,

'Tis the Art at the Door that will please the best; To the end of Time 'twill be still the same,

For the Earth first laughed when the children

came!

THE DISTRESSED POET

A SUGGESTION FROM HOGARTH

ONE knows the scene so well,—a touch,

A word, brings back again

That room, not garnished overmuch,
In gusty Drury Lane;

The empty safe, the child that cries,
The kittens on the coat,

The good-wife with her patient eyes,
The milkmaid's tuneless throat;

And last, in that mute woe sublime,
The luckless verseman's air:

The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,-
The Rhyme .. that is not there!

Poor Bard to dream the verse inspired—
With dews Castalian wet-

Is built from cold abstractions squired
By Bysshe," his epithet!

Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse,
No step upon the stair

Betrays the guest that none refuse,-
She takes us unaware;

And tips with fire our lyric lips,
And sets our hearts a-flame,
And then, like Ariel, off she trips,
And none know how she came.

Only, henceforth, for right or wrong,
By some dull sense grown keen,
Some blank hour blossomed into song
We feel that she has been.

Then we drop from the heights atmospheric To Herrick,

Or we pour the Greek honey, grown blander, Of Landor;

Or our cosiest nook in the shade is

Where Praed is,

Or we toss the light bells of the mocker

With Locker.

Oh, the song where not one of the Graces Tight-laces,

Where we woo the sweet Muses not starchly,

But archly,