Nay, let my words be so discreet, Let others wish you mere good looks,- Or to be writ in Fortune's books,— I wish you but a heart that's kind, A joy of life, a frank delight; And if you fail to find a Knight- 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 do nought in the world (but Work) by halves, 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, The empty safe, the child that cries, The good-wife with her patient eyes, And last, in that mute woe sublime, The "Bysshe," the foolscap and the rhyme,- Poor Bard to dream the verse inspired— Is built from cold abstractions squired Ah! when she comes, the glad-eyed Muse, Betrays the guest that none refuse,- And tips with fire our lyric lips, Only, henceforth, for right or wrong, 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, |