Tell me. A GARDEN IDYLL That garden-seat shall be, So long as speech renown disperses. Illustrious as the spot where he- The gifted Blank-composed his verses. Madam, THE POET. whose uncensorious eye Grows gracious over certain pages, Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, It may be, thicker than the Sage'sI hear but to obey, and could Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, Some verse as whimsical as Hood,— As gay as Praed,—should answer to you. But, though the common voice proclaims Our only serious vocation Confined to giving nothings names And dreams a "local habitation"; Believe me there are tuneless days, When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, "A primrose by a river's brim” Is absolutely unsuggestive. The fickle Muse! As ladies will, She flies the more that we pursue her ; But cannot comfortably show it. You thought, no doubt, the garden scent Or else you thought,-the murmuring noon, And windy bough-swing in the metre; Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, And mediæval orchard blossoms, Quite à la mode. Alas for prose!— Back to the red-walled Rectory close, Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled, A GARDEN IDYLL Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, Three peaches. Not the Graces three Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair More keen that one of these was rotten— Moved me to seek some forest lair Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, Attired in skins, by berries stained, Absolved from brushes and ablution ;— But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, I saw it all but now. The grin That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features; My father, scholar-like and thin, Unroused, the tenderest of creatures; I saw-ah me--I saw again My dear and deprecating mother; And then, remembering the cane, Regretted that I'd left the Other. IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, FRANK. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected, If I were you! NELLIE. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, TU QUOQUE FRANK. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer NELLIE. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, FRANK. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you! NELLIE. Really! You would? Why, Frank, you're quite delightful, Hot as Othello, and as black of hue; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you! FRANK. "It is the cause." I mean your chaperon is |