Quite undisturbed by nerves or blues,
My doctor gives me--all the news.
Poor Polly would not care to fly;
And Wasp, you know, was born in Skye.

To realise your tete-a-tete
Might jeopardise a giddy pate;
And _quel ennui_! if, pride apart,
I lost my head, or you your heart.
I'm more than sorry, I'm afraid
My Castle is already made.

And is this all we gain by fancies
For noon-day dreams, and waking trances,--
Such dreams as brought poor souls mishap,
When Baby-Time was fond of pap:
And still will cheat with feigning joys,
While women smile, and men are boys?

The blooming rose conceals an asp,
And bliss coquetting flies the grasp:
And, waking up, snap goes the slight
Poor cord that held my foolish kite,--
Your slave, you may not care to know it,
Your humble slave will be your Poet.

Farewell!--can aught for her be will'd
Whose every wish is all fulfill'd?
Farewell!--could wishing weave a spell,
There's promise in those words "Fare well!"

I wish your wish may not be marr'd;--
Now wish yourself a better Bard!

THE CRADLE

Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my Jenny,
Such slender dimensions go somewhat to show
You were an exceedingly small pic-a-ninny
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

Your baby-days flow'd in a much-troubled channel;
I see you as then in your impotent strife,--
A tight little bundle of wailing and flannel,
Perplex'd with that newly-found fardel called life.

To hint at an infantine frailty's a scandal;
All bye-gones are bye-gones--and somebody knows
It was bliss such a baby to dance and to dandle,
Your cheeks were so velvet--so rosy your toes.

Aye, here is your cradle! and Hope, a bright spirit,
With Love now is watching beside it, I know;
They guard o'er the nest you yourself did inherit
Some nineteen or twenty short summers ago.

It is Hope gilds the future, Love welcomes it smiling;
Thus wags this old world, therefore stay not to ask,--
"My future bids fair, is my future beguiling?"
If mask'd, still it pleases, then raise not its mask.

Is life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin,--
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.

Then smile as your fut