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"Compel me not to long for your reply;
Suspense makes havoc with the mind”—(and muscles); "Winged Hope takes flight,”—(which means that I must
Default of funds, to Paris or to Brussels);
"I cannot wait! My own, my queen-Priscilla ! Write by return." And now for a Manilla !
"Miss Blank," at "Blank." Jemima, let it go;
And I, meanwhile, will idle with "Sir Walter;" Stay, let me keep the first rough copy, though—
"Twill serve again. There's but the name to alter, And Love, that starves,—must knock at every portal, In forma pauperis. We are but mortal!
“Il était un jeune homme d'un bien beau passé.”
HEN first he sought our haunts, he wore
His brow with thought was "sicklied o'er,”—
And, e'en when none were looking on,
He kept, I think, his bosom bare
His solitary topics were
Esthetics, Fate, and Soul ;Although at times, but not for long, He bowed his Intellect to song.
He served, he said, a Muse of Tears:
I know his verses breathed
A fine funereal air of biers,
And objects cypress-wreathed ;-
In these light moods, I call to mind,
To some dread sorrow undefined,—
He railed at women's faith as Cant;
His lot, he oft would gravely urge,
We dreamed it true. We never knew
We, bound with him in common care,
Resolved to Thought and Diet spare
We, truly, in no common sense
But soon, and yet, though soon, too late,
We, sorrowing, sighed to find
He dared to speak of Etiquette.
The verse that we severe had known,
A fond effeminate monotone
Of eyebrows, lips, and hair;
Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff, Grew whimsically sore
If we but named a photograph
We found him simpering o'er;
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.