Be still, O heart, that turns to share The sunshine of a face. 'Have ye no messages—no brief, Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?' A sudden stir of stem and leaf— A breath of heliotrope!
LUSUS POLITICUS.
Come in, old gentleman. How do you do? Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called. I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you Are a pleasant-appearing person, too, With a head agreeably bald. That's right—sit down in the scuttle of coal And put up your feet in a chair. It is better to have them there: And I've always said that a hat of lead, Such as I see you wear, Was a better hat than a hat of glass. And your boots of brass Are a natural kind of boots, I swear. 'May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?' Why, certainly, man, why not? I rather expected you'd do it before, When I saw you poking it in at the door. It's dev'lish hot— The weather, I mean. 'You are twins'? Why, that was evident at the start, From the way that you paint your head In stripes of purple and red, With dots of yellow. That proves you a fellow With a love of legitimate art. 'You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad'? That's very sad, But Longfellow's words I beg to recall: Your lot is the common lot of all. 'Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze'? That, I fancy, is just as you please. Some think that way and others hold The opposite view; I never quite knew, For the matter o' that, When everything's been said— May I offer this mat If you will stand on your head? I suppose I look to be upside down From your present point of view. It's a giddy old world, from king to clown, And a topsy-turvy, too. But, worthy and now uninverted old man,You're built, at least, on a normal plan If ever a truth I spoke. Smoke? Your air and conversation Are a liberal education, And your clothes, including the metal hat And the brazen boots—what's that? 'You never could stomach a Democrat Since General Jackson ran? You're another sort, but you predict That your party'll get consummately licked?' Good God! what a queer old man!
BEREAVEMENT.
A Countess (so they tell the tale) Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale, Where ladies, even of high degree, Know more of love than of A.B.C, Came once with a prodigious bribe Unto the learned village scribe, That most discreet and honest man Who wrote for all the lover clan, Nor e'er a secret had betrayed— Save when inadequately paid. 'Write me,' she sobbed—'I pray thee do— A book about the Prince di Giu— A book of poetry in praise Of all his works and all his ways; The godlike grace of his address, His more than woman's tenderness, His courage stern and lack of guile, The loves that wantoned in his smile. So great he was, so rich and kind, I'll not within a fortnight find
