Baron of Sans-terre, Lord of Prés-en-Cieux,

Vidame of Vol-au-Vent-" et aultres lieux !"Bah! How I hate his Gasconading tongue!

Why, that's my bragging, Bravo-MusketeerMy carpet cut-throat, valiant by a scar

Got in a brawl that stands for Spanish war :His very life's a splash!

DENISE.

I'd rather wear

E'en such a patched and melancholy air,

As his,—that motley one,—who keeps the wall,

And hugs his own lean thoughts for carnival.

THE PRINCESS.

My frankest wooer! Thus his love he tells
To mournful moving of his cap and bells.
He loves me (so he saith) as Slaves the Free,—
As Cowards War,-as young Maids Constancy.

Item, he loves me as the Hawk the Dove;

He loves me as the Inquisition Thought;

DENISE.

"He loves?—he loves?" Why all this loving's naught!

THE PRINCESS.

And "Naught (quoth JACQUOT) makes the sum of

Love!"

DENISE.

The cynic knave! How call you this one here ?——

This small shy-looking fish, that hovers near,

And circles, like a cat around a cage,

To snatch the surplus.

THE PRINCESS.

CHERUBIN, the page.

'Tis but a child, yet with that roguish smile,

And those sly looks, the child will make hearts ache

Not five years hence, I prophesy. Meanwhile

He lives to plague the swans upon the lake,

To steal my comfits, and the monkey's cake.

DENISE.

And these that swim aside-who may these be?

THE PRINCESS.

Those are two gentlemen of Picardy,

Equal in blood,-of equal bravery :-

D'AURELLES and MAUFRIGNAC. They hunt in pair;

I mete them morsels with an equal care,

Lest they should eat each other,—or eat Me.

DENISE.

And that--and that—and that?

THE PRINCESS.

I name them not.

Those are the crowd who merely think their lot

The lighter by my land.

DENISE.

And is there none

More prized than most? There surely must be one,—

A Carp of carps!

THE PRINCESS.

Ah me!-he will not come !

He swims at large,-looks shyly on,-is dumb. Sometimes, indeed, I think he fain would nibble, But while he stays with doubts and fears to quibble, Some gilded fop, or mincing courtier-fribble,

Slips smartly in,-and gets the proffered crumb.

He should have all my crumbs-if he'd but ask ;

Nay, if he would, it were no hopeless task

To gain a something more. But though he's brave, He's far too proud to be a dangling slave;

And then-he's modest! So... he will not come !

THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE.

A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY.

OUT from the City's dust and roar,

You wandered through the open door;

Paused at a plaything pail and spade

Across a tiny hillock laid;

Then noted on your dexter side

Some moneyed mourner's "love or pride;"

And so,-beyond a hawthorn-tree,

Scattering its rain of rosy bloom