Who can it be?—the Bernardine, That used to pray with me of yore? No,-for the monk was not so lean. This must be He who, legend saith, Comes sometimes with a kindlier mien And tolls a knell.-This shape is Death. Good-bye, old Bell! So let it be. How strangely now I draw my breath! What is this haze of light I see?... IN MANUS TUas, Domine! BEFORE THE CURTAIN. "MISS PEACOCK's called." And who demurs ? Not I who write, for certain; If praise be due, one sure prefers That some such face as fresh as hers Should come before the curtain. And yet, most strange to say, I find (E'en bards are sometimes prosy) Her presence here but brings to mind That undistinguished crowd behind For whom life's not so rosy. The pleased young premier led her on, But where are all the others? Where is that nimble servant John? And where's the comic Uncle gone? Where is "Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart. ?" And where the crafty Cousin ?—— That man may have a kindly heart, And yet each night ('tis in the part) Must poison half-a-dozen! Where is the cool Detective,―he Should surely be applauded? The Lawyer, who refused the fee ? The Wedding Guests (in number three)?— Why are they all defrauded? The men who worked the cataract? The plush-clad carpet lifters ? Where is the countless host, in fact, Whose cue is not to speak, but act,— The "supers" and the shifters ? Think what a crowd whom none recall, Unsung,-unpraised,—unpitied ;— Women for whom no bouquets fall, And men whose names no galleries bawl,— The Great un-Benefit-ed! Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page, I leave you this for Moral : Remember those who tread Life's stage With weary feet and scantest wage, And ne'er a leaf for laurel ! THE LAST DESPATCH. HURRAH! the Season's past at last; At length we've 'done' our pleasure. Dear 'Pater,' if you only knew How much I've longed for home and you,—Our own green lawn and leisure! And then the pets! One half forgets The dear dumb friends-in Babel. I hope my special fish is fed ; I long to see poor Nigra's head |