In these light moods, I call to mind,
He darkly would allude

To some dread sorrow undefined,—
Some passion unsubdued;
Then break into a ghastly laugh,
And talk of Keats his epitaph.

He railed at women's faith as Cant;
We thought him grandest when
He named them Siren-shapes that "chant
On blanching bones of Men ;"-
Alas, not e'en the great go free
From that insidious minstrelsy!

His lot, he oft would gravely urge,
Lay on a lone Rock where
Around Time-beaten bases surge
The Billows of Despair.

We dreamed it true. We never knew

What gentler ears he told it to.

We, bound with him in common care,

One-minded, celibate,

Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
Our lives to dedicate ;—

We, truly, in no common sense

Deserved his closest confidence!

But soon,

and yet, though soon, too late, We, sorrowing, sighed to find A gradual softness enervate

That all superior mind, Until,-in full assembly met,

He dared to speak of Etiquette.

The verse that we severe had known,
Assumed a wanton air,—

A fond effeminate monotone

Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Not ἦθος stirred him now or νοῦς,
He read "The Angel in the House!"

Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff, Grew whimsically sore

If we but named a photograph

We found him simpering o'er ; Or told how in his chambers lurked A watch-guard intricately worked.

Then worse again. He tried to dress; He trimmed his tragic mane; Announced at length (to our distress) He had not "lived in vain ";— Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude.

And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul !
We met him last, grown stout,
His throat with wedlock's triple roll,
"All wool,"-enwound about;

His very hat had changed its brim ;—

Our course was clear,-WE BANISHED HIM!

A VIRTUOSO.

E seated, pray. "A

BE

grave appeal "? The sufferers by the war, of course; Ah, what a sight for us who feel,

This monstrous mélodrame of Force! We, Sir, we connoisseurs, should know, On whom its heaviest burden falls; Collections shattered at a blow, Museums turned to hospitals!

"And worse," you say; "the wide distress!" Alas, 'tis true distress exists,

Though, let me add, our worthy Press

Have no mean skill as colourists ;—

Speaking of colour, next your seat

There hangs a sketch from Vernet's hand; Some Moscow fancy, incomplete,

Yet not indifferently planned;

Note specially the gray old Guard,
Who tears his tattered coat to wrap
A closer bandage round the scarred
And frozen comrade in his lap ;-

But, as regards the present war,—

Now don't you think our pride of pence
Goes-may I say it?—somewhat far
For objects of benevolence?

You hesitate. For my part, I—
Though ranking Paris next to Rome,
Esthetically-still reply

That "Charity begins at Home."
The words remind me. Did you catch

My so-named "Hunt"? The girl's a gem ; And look how those lean rascals snatch The pile of scraps she brings to them!

"But your appeal 's for home,"—you say,— For home, and English poor! Indeed!

I thought Philanthropy to-day

Was blind to mere domestic need

However sore-Yet though one grants

That home should have the foremost claims,

At least these Continental wants

Assume intelligible names;

While here with us-Ah! who could hope

To verify the varied pleas,

Or from his private means to cope

With all our shrill necessities !