My Phyllida! my Phyllida! I care not though they heap The hearts of all St. James's, And give me all to keep; I care not whose the beauties Of all the world may be, For Phyllida-for Phyllida Is all the world to me! THE OLD SEDAN CHAIR "What's not destroy'd by Time's devouring Hand? T stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, with leaves: It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, It is battered and tattered,-it little avails See, here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes For the poles of the bearers-when once there were poles; It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair, As the birds have discovered,-that old Sedar chair! "Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,-under the seat, Is a nest with four eggs,-'tis the favoured retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair! And yet Can't you fancy a face in the frame 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; Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell "Heu! quantum mutata,” I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,—" With Care," To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan chair! TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY I ye slay "Kill not-for Pity's sake-and lest -FIVE RULES OF BUDDIIA 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 Dance down a shaft of glancing light, Review my books a-row; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of "blind Mæonides ". Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit You pause, you poise, you circle up You find a comrade on a cup, A friend upon a fan; |