A SKETCH IN A CEMETERY

OUT from the City's dust and roar,
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's "love or pride;"
And so, beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb,-
You came upon it — suddenly.

How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbor

How I forget!

M. VIEUXBOIS.

I am so old! But sing, Babette!

BABETTE [sings].

One was the Friend I left
Stark in the Snow;

One was the Wife that died
Long,-long ago;
One was the Love I lost
How could she know?

M. VIEUXBOIS [murmuring].

Ah, Paul!... old Paul!... Eulalie too!
And Rose... And O!... the sky so blue!
BABETTE [sings].

One had my Mother's eyes,
Wistful and mild;

One had my Father's face;
One was a Child:

All of them bent to me,
Bent down and smiled!

He is asleep!

M. VIEUXBOIS [almost inaudibly].
How I forget!

I am so old... Good night, Babette !

ON A FAN

THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE
POMPADOUR

CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty frou-frou!
Picture above, if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew,This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the Eil de Boeuf through,
Courtiers as butterflies bright,
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke, - to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue, -
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous !

SHIP, to the roadstead rolled,
What dost thou ?-O, once more

Regain the port. Behold!
Thy sides are bare of oar,
Thy tall mast wounded sore
Of Africus, and see,

What shall thy spars restore !
Tempt not thy tyrant sea!

What cable now will hold
When all drag out from shore !
What god canst thou, too bold,
In time of need implore!
Look for thy sails flap o'er,
Thy stiff shrouds part and flee,
Fast fast thy seams outpour,
Tempt not the tyrant sea!

What though thy ribs of old
The pines of Pontus bore!
Not now to stern of gold

Men trust, or painted prore! Thou, or thou count'st it store A toy of winds to be,

Shun thou the Cyclads' roar,— Tempt not the tyrant sea!

ENVOY

Ship of the State, before
A care, and now to me

A hope in my heart's core,
Tempt not the tyrant sea!

"O FONS BANDUSIÆ”

O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear,
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,
To-morrow shall a kid be thine

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,
The beechen bowl made glad with wine...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, -
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold!

And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

Alas for us! Our songs are cold;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine:
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold!

How sweet with you on some green sod
To wreathe the rustic garden-god;

How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade
With you to weave a basket-braid;
To watch across the stricken chords
Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee;
To woo you in soft woodland words,
With woodland pipe, Autonoë!

In vain, in vain! The years divide :
Where Thamis rolls a murky tide,
I sit and fill my painful reams,
And see you only in my dreams;
A vision, like Alcestis, brought

From under-lands of Memory,

A dream of Form in days of Thought,A dream,- a dream, Autonoë!

ARS VICTRIX

IMITATED FROM THEOPHILE GAUTIER YES; when the ways oppose When the hard means rebel, Fairer the work out-grows,More potent far the spell.

O Poet, then, forbear

The loosely-sandalled verse, Choose rather thou to wear The buskin-strait and terse;

Leave to the tiro's hand

The limp and shapeless style; See that thy form demand The labor of the file.

Sculptor, do thou discard

The yielding clay,- consign To Paros marble hard

The beauty of thy line ;

Model thy Satyr's face

For bronze of Syracuse; In the veined agate trace The profile of thy Muse.

Painter, that still must mix

But transient tints anew, Thou in the furnace fix

The firm enamel's hue;

Let the smooth tile receive Thy dove-drawn Erycine; Thy Sirens blue at eve

Coiled in a wash of wine.

All passes. Art alone
Enduring stays to us;
The Bust outlasts the throne,
The Coin, Tiberius;

Even the gods must go;
Only the lofty Rhyme
Not countless years o'erthrow,-
Not long array of time.

Paint, chisel, then, or write;
But, that the work surpass,
With the hard fashion fight,-
With the resisting mass.

THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S

A PROPER NEW BALLAD OF THE COUNTRY AND THE TOWN

THE ladies of St. James's

Go swinging to the play;

Their footmen run before them,

With a "Stand by! Clear the way!" But Phyllida, my Phyllida! She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting Beneath the harvest moon.

The ladies of St. James's

Wear satin on their backs; They sit all night at Ombre, With candles all of wax: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew Before the world is down.

The ladies of St. James's!

They are so fine and fair,
You'd think a box of essences
Was broken in the air:
But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

The breath of heath and furze, When breezes blow at morning, Is not so fresh as hers.

The ladies of St. James's!

They're painted to the eyes; Their white it stays for ever,

Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her color comes and goes; It trembles to a lily,

It wavers to a rose.

The ladies of St. James's!

You scarce can understand The half of all their speeches, Their phrases are so grand : But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her shy and simple words Are clear as after rain-drops The music of the birds.

The ladies of St. James's!

They have their fits and freaks; They smile on you - for seconds, They frown on you- for weeks: But Phyllida, my Phyllida!

Come either storm or shine, From Shrove-tide unto Shrove-tide, Is always true-and mine.

My Phyllida! my Phyllida!

I care not though they heap
The hearts of all St. James's,
And give me all to keep;
I care not whose the beauties
Of all the world may be,
For Phyllida-for Phyllida
Is all the world to me!

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE

TO... ESQ.

OF... WITH A LIFE OF THE
LATE INGENIOUS MR. WM. HOGARTH

DEAR Cosmopolitan, - I know
I should address you a Rondeau,
Or else announce what I've to say
At least en Ballade fratriseé;
But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,
And take to simple Hudibrasticks,
Why should I choose another Way,
When this was good enough for GAY?

You love, my FRIEND, with me I think,
That Age of Lustre and of Link;
Of Chelsea China and long "s"es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;

That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;
- No H-LTS, no K-G-N P-LS were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy TONSONS and your CURLLS;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The AUTHOR in a Sheep-skin Back;
Then SAVAGE and his Brother-Sinners
In Porridge Island div'd for Dinners;
Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks ;-
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found MADAM still
Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille,
When good SIR JOHN reel'd Home to
Bed,

From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head;
When TRIP convey'd his Master's Cloaths,
And took his Titles and his Oaths;
While BETTY, in a cast Brocade,
Ogled MY LORD at Masquerade;
When GARRICK play'd the guilty Richard,
Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. PRITCHARD;
When FOOTE grimaced his snarling Wit;
When CHURCHILL bullied in the Pit;
When the CuZZONI Sang-

But there!
The further Catalogue I spare,
Having no Purpose to eclipse
That tedious Tale of HOMER's Ships ;-
This is the MAN that drew it all

From Pannier Alley to the Mall,
Then turn'd and drew it once again

From Bird Cage- Walk to Lewknor's

Lane;

Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;

Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots; Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters, Its HENLEYS, LOVATS, MALCOLMS, CHAR

TRES,

Its Splendor, Squalor, Shame, Disease;
Its quicquid agunt Homines; -
Nor yet omitted to pourtray
Furens quid possit Foemina;
In short, held up to ev'ry Class
NATURE's unflatt'ring looking-Glass;
And, from his Canvas, spoke to All
The Message of a JUVENAL.

Take Him. His Merits most aver: His weak Point is his Chronicler !