"

"Mary, thou angel of my life,
Thou ever good and kind;
'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear,
No, nor my brain, in sooth;
But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,--oh, first best antidote,--
Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
To wrap around my head!"

The Invocation.

"Brother, thou art very weary,
And thine eye is sunk and dim,
And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled,
And thy collar out of trim;
There is dust upon thy visage,--
Think not, Charles, I would hurt ye,
When I say, that altogether
You appear extremely dirty.

"Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee
To thy chamber's distant room;
Drown the odours of the ledger
With the lavender's perfume.
Brush the mud from off thy trousers,
O'er the china basin kneel,
Lave thy brows in water softened
With the soap of Old Castile.

"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead
Now in loose disorder stray;
Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers
Cut those ragged points away;
Let no more thy calculations
Thy bewildered brain beset;
Life has other hopes than Cocker's,
Other joys than tare and tret.

"Haste thee, for I ordered dinner,
Waiting to the very last,
Twenty minutes after seven,
And 'tis now the quarter past.
'Tis a dinner which Lucullus
Would have wept with joy to see,
One, might wake the soul of Curtis
From death's drowsy atrophy.

"There is soup of real turtle,
Turbot, and the dainty sole;
And the mottled roe of lobsters
Blushes through the butter-bowl.
There the lordly haunch of mutton,
Tender as the mountain grass,
Waits to mix its ruddy juices
With the girdling caper-sauce.

"There a stag, whose branching forehead
Spoke him monarch of the herds,
He whose flight was o'er the heather
Swift as through the air the bird's,
Yields for thee a dish of cutlets;
And the haunch that wont to dash
O'er the roaring mountain-torrent,
Smokes in most delicious hash.

"There, besides, are amber jellies
Floating like a golden dream;
Ginger from the far Bermudas,
Dishes of Italian cream;
And a princely apple-dumpling,
Which my own fair fingers wrought,
Shall unfold its nectared treasures
To thy lips all smoking hot.

"Ha! I see thy brow is clearing,
Lustre flashes from thine eyes;
To thy lips I see the moisture
Of anticipation rise.
Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!"