She lives in glory,-like night's gems Amid the blue of June. CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY. The New Tale of a Tub. THE Orient day was fresh and and fair, Where waters bubble as boiled in a pot, Unless, indeed, when the great Simoom Rise up and roar with a dreadful gust, No great Simoom rose up to-day, And that of such silent and voiceless play Had made more rustle Than it did among the trees. 'T was not like the breath of a British vale, Where each Green acre is blessed with a Gale Whenever the natives please; But it was of that soft inviting sort That it tempted to revel in picnic sport Two Bengalese Resolved to seize The balmy chance of that cool-winged weather, To revel in Bengal ease together. One was tall, the other was stout, They were natives both of the glorious East, That off they roamed to a country plain, Where the breeze roved free about, That during its visits brief, at least, It might blow upon their blow-out. The country plain gave a view as small say ? Something certainly stood in the way (Though it had neither cloth nor tray, With its "tiffin" I would n't quarrel)— It was a sort of hermaphrodite thing, It stood in the midst of that Indian plain, Two gentlemen anxiously marching. And the tub or barrel that stood beyond For short we will call it Tub Contained with pride, In its jolly inside, The prize of which they were dotingly fond, "Leave us alone-come man or come beast," Said the eldest, "We 'll soon have a shy at the feast." They are now at their picnic with might and with main. A jungle, a thicket of bush, weed, and grass, Not an ass, not an ass,-that could not come to pass; No donkey, no donkey, no donkey at all, But, superb in his slumber, a Royal Bengal. No such thing! He did n't rule lands from the Thames to the Niger, O'er that jungle and plain, And besides was a very magnificent Tiger. There he lay, in his skin so gay, His passions at rest, and his appetites curbed; In his proudest time, Asleep, was never more undisturbed; For who would come to shake him? O, it's certain sure, in his dream demure, Only the Royal snore may creep The Bengalese, in cool apparel, Meanwhile have reached their picnic barrel; Out of their great provision Tub, And, standing it up for shelter, They make a pass to spread on the grass. They sit at ease, with their plates on their knees, And now their hungry jaws they appease, And now they turn to the glass; For Hodgson's ale Is genuine pale, And the bright champagne The most convivial souls to please Of these very thirsty Bengalese. Ha! one of the two has relinquished his fork, Blurting and spurting! Perhaps the Tiger thinks he is hissed. As he 's roused from his dreams, That his visions have come to a thirsty stop, And resolves to moisten his throat with a drop. At all events, with body and soul, He gives in his jungle a stretch and a roll, With a temperate mind, For a beast of his kind, And a tail uncommonly long behind. He knows of no water, By field or by flood; No! the utmost scope Of his limited hope Bengalese, When they find he arrives, May not rise from their picnic and run for their lives, But simply bow on that beautiful plain, And offer Sir Tiger a glass of champagne. They woke me, I think, Gently Tiger crouches along, A sweet subdued familiar lay As ever was warbled by beast of prey; And all so softly, tunefully done, That it made no more sound Than his shade on the ground; So the Bengalese heard it, never a one! Gently Tiger steals along, "Mild as a moonbeam," meek as a lamb, What so suddenly changes his song From a tune to a growl? "Och! by my sowl, Nothing on earth but the smell of the ham!" He quickens his pace, The illigant baste, And he 's running a race With himself for a taste. And he 's taken to roaring, and given up humming, Just to let the two Bengalese know he is coming. |