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, 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; Peeped out an arch, ingenuous face That beckoned to me. We shut our heart up, now-a-days, Derisive pity; Alas,-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 fresh young smile that shone when she, Once more we trod the Golden Way, That mother you saw yesterday, And I, whom none can well portray She twirled the flimsy scarf about Where we were bound no mortal knows, Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate. Its wonted station. Pass me the wine. To Those that keep The bachelor's secluded sleep CUPID'S ALLEY. A MORALITY. O, Love's but a dance, Where Time plays the fiddle! See the couples advance, O, Love's but a dance! A whisper, a glance, "Shall we twirl down the middle?" O, Love's but a dance, Where Time plays the fiddle! T runs (so saith my Chronicler) IT Across a smoky City; A Babel filled with buzz and whirr, Huge, gloomy, black and gritty; Dark-louring looks the hill-side near, Dark-yawning looks the valley,— But here 'tis always fresh and clear, For here is "Cupid's Alley." And, from an Arbour cool and green, Alert he seems, but aged enow To punt the Stygian galley;— With wisp of forelock on his brow, He plays-in "Cupid's Alley." All day he plays,—a single tune !— My Lord may walk a pas de Cour The folks who ne'er have danced before, Can dance-in "Cupid's Alley' And here, for ages yet untold, Long, long before my ditty, Came high and low, and young and old, And still to-day they come, they go, And just as fancies tally, They foot it quick, they foot it slow, All day-in "Cupid's Alley." Strange dance! 'Tis free to Rank and Rags; Here no distinction flatters, Here Riches shakes its money-bags, And Poverty its tatters; |