re poor; and how? and why?
How kind to come! it was for my
Especial grace meant!
Had you a parlour next the stars,
A bird, some treasur'd plants in jars,
About your casement?

You must have dwelt _au cinquieme_,
Like little darling What's-her-name,--
Eugene Sue's glory:
Perchance, unwittingly, I've heard
Your thrilling-toned Canary-bird
From that fifth storey.

I've seen some changes since we met;
A patient little seamstress yet,
With small means striving,
Have you a Lilliputian spouse?
And do you dwell in some doll's house?
--Is baby thriving?

Can bloom like thine--my heart grows chill--
Have sought that bourne unwelcome still
To bosom smarting?
The most forlorn--what worms we are!--
Would wish to finish this cigar
Before departing.

I sometimes to Pall Mall repair,
And see the damsels passing there;
But though I try to
Obtain one glance, they look discreet,
As though they'd someone else to meet,--
As have not _I_ too?

Yet still I often muse upon
Our many meetings--come and gone!
July--December!
Now let us make a tryste, and when,
Dear little soul, we meet again,
In some serener sphere, why then--
Thy Friend remember!

THE RUSSET PITCHER

"The Pitcher may go often to the Well, but it gets broken at last."

Away, ye simple ones, away!
Bring no vain fancies hither;
The brightest dreams of youth decay,
The fairest roses wither.

Aye, since this fountain first was plann'd,
And Dryad learnt to drink,
Have lovers held, knit hand in hand,
Sweet parley at its brink.

From youth to age this waterfall
Most tunefully flows on,
But where, aye! tell me where, are all
Those constant lovers gone?

The falcon on the turtle preys,
And fondest vows are lither,
The brightest dream of youth decays,
The fairest roses wither.

"Thy Russet Pitcher set adown,
Fair maid, and list to one
Who much this sorry world hath known,--
A muser thereupon.

Though youth is ardent, gay, and bold,
Youth flatters and beguiles,
Though Giles is young,--and I am old,--
Ne'er trust thy heart to Giles.

Thy Pitcher may some luckless day
Be broken coming hither,
Thy doting slave may prove a knave,--
The fairest roses wither."

She laugh'd