Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair? Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!--but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair! It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade"; For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited-and waited, that old Sedan chair! Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,— Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare !) Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair! "Heu! quantum mutata,” I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! "With We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,— Care,❞— To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan chair! 1884. TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY "Kill not-for Pity's sake—and lest ye slay I WATCH you through the garden walks, The avenues of dahlia stalks, And flicker on the green; You hover round the garden seat, You mount, you waver. Why, Why storm us in our still retreat, O saffron Butterfly ! Across the room in loops of flight Review my books a-row; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of "blind Mæonides "— Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit Not butterflies, but bees! You pause, you poise, you circle up You find a comrade on a cup, Yet wind anon, a breathing-while, Dost dream her then, O Volatile ! Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purpose fills Her steadfast soul with deep design Of baby bows and frills; What care hath she for worlds without, What heed for yellow sun, Whose endless hopes revolve about A planet, atat One. Away! Tempt not the best of wives ; Let not thy garish wing Come fluttering our Autumn lives Be Buddha's law obeyed; Lest Betty's undiscerning hand Should slay . . . a future PRAED! THE CURÉ'S PROGRESS MONSIEUR the Cure down the street Comes with his kind old face,— With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case. You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place," And the tiny" Hôtel-de-Ville"; He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose, He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call; And his compliment pays to the " Belle Thérèse," As she knits in her dusky stall. There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes |