There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,

Who is said to be heterodox,

That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui !”
And a pinch from the Curé's box.

There is also a word that no one heard
To the furrier's daughter Lou. ;

And a pale cheek fed with a flickering red,
And a "Bon Dieu garde M'sieu!”

But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,
And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne ;
And a mock "off-hat" to the Notary's cat,
And a nod to the Sacristan :—

For ever through life the Curé goes

With a smile on his kind old face

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

TO AN UNKNOWN BUST IN THE

WH

BRITISH MUSEUM

"Sermons in stones."

HO were you once? Could we but guess
We might perchance more boldly

Define the patient weariness

That sets your lips so coldly;

You "lived," we know, for blame and fame;

But sure, to friend or foeman,

You bore some more distinctive name
Than mere "B. C.," and "Roman"?

Your pedestal should help us much.
Thereon your acts, your title,
(Secure from cold Oblivion's touch!)
Had doubtless due recital;

Vain hope!—not even deeds can last!
That stone, of which you're minus,
Maybe with all your virtues past

We seek it not; we should not find.
But still, it needs no magic

To tell you wore, like most mankind,
Your comic mask and tragic;

And held that things were false and true,
Felt angry or forgiving,

As step by step you stumbled through
This life-long task... of living!

You tried the cul-de-sac of Thought;
The montagne Russe of Pleasure;
You found the best Ambition brought
Was strangely short of measure;
You watched, at last, the fleet days fly,
Till-drowsier and colder-
You felt MERCURIUS loitering by
To touch you on the shoulder.

'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come That howso Time should garble

Those deeds of yours when you were dumb,

At least you'd live-in Marble;

You smiled to think that arter days,

At least, in Bust or Statue,

(We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze,

Not quite incurious, at you.

1879.

We gaze; we pity you, be sure !

In truth, Death's worst inaction
Must be less tedious to endure

Than nameless petrifaction ;
Far better, in some nook unknown,
To sleep for once-and soundly—
Than still survive in wistful stone,
Forgotten more profoundly!

MOLLY TREFUSIS

"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,
And ten is the number of Muses;

For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,—
My dear little Molly Trefusis!"

So he

O he wrote, the old bard of an "old Magazine" ;

As a study it not without use is,

If we wonder a moment who she may have been,

This same "little Molly Trefusis!"

She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre";

Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is

If we say that where Bude bellows back to the

sea

Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis.