She seemed like a snow-drop breaking,
Not wholly alive nor dead,

But with one blind impulse making
To the sounds of the spring overhead;

And I watched in the lamplight's swerving
The shade of the down-dropt lid,
And the lip-line's delicate curving,
Where a slumbering smile lay hid,
Till I longed that, rather than sever,
The train should shriek into space,
And carry us onward-for ever,—
Me and that beautiful face.

But she suddenly woke in a fidget,

With fears she was "nearly at home," And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget,

Whom I mentally wished-well, at Rome; Got out at the very next station,

Looking back with a merry Bon Soir;
Adding, too, to my utter vexation,
A surplus, unkind Au Revoir.

So left me to muse on her graces,

To doze and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places In a glorified galley, it seemed;

But the cabin was made of a carriage,

And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne,

And we split on a rock labelled MARRIAGE, And I woke,-as cold as a stone.

And that's how I lost her-a jewel,
Incognita-one in a crowd,
Not prudent enough to be cruel,

Not worldly enough to be proud. It was just a shut lid and its lashes, Just a few hours in a train,

And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes, Longing to see her again.

FROM

DORA VERSUS ROSE

The Case is proceeding."

ROM the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-
At least, on a practical plan—

To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys,
One love is enough for a man.

But no case that I ever yet met is
Like mine: I am equally fond
Of Rose, who a charming brunette is,

And Dora, a blonde.

Each rivals the other in powers—

Each waltzes, each warbles, each paintsMiss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints.

In short, to distinguish is folly;

'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-Or Buridan's ass.

If it happens that Rosa I've singled
For a soft celebration in rhyme,

Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled
Somehow with the tune and the time;

Or I painfully pen me a sonnet

To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it

The legend "To Rose.'

Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter
Is all overscrawled with her head),
If I fancy at last that I've got her,
It turns to her rival instead ;
Or I find myself placidly adding

To the rapturous tresses of Rose
Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding,

Ineffable nose.

Was there ever so sad a dilemma?
For Rose I would perish (pro tem.);
For Dora I'd willingly stem a—
(Whatever might offer to stem);
But to make the invidious election,-
To declare that on either one's side
I've a scruple, a grain, more affection,
I cannot decide.

And, as either so hopelessly nice is,
My sole and my final resource
Is to wait some indefinite crisis,-
Some feat of molecular force,
To solve me this riddle conducive
By no means to peace or repose,
Since the issue can scarce be inclusive
Of Dora and Rose.

(Afterthought.)

But, perhaps, if a third (say a Norah),
Not quite so delightful as Rose,—
Not wholly so charming as Dora,-

Should appear, is it wrong to suppose,-
As the claims of the others are equal,—
And flight in the main-is the best,—
That I might . . . But no matter,-the sequel
Is easily guessed.