And oh! from its ivory portal

Like music his soft speech must flow!— If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say 'No!'

Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,
Don't look at his seat in the county,

Don't calculate what he is worth;
But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he's only an excellent person,—
My own Araminta, say 'No!'

W. M. Praed.

ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER

WHY SO pale and wan, fond lover?
Prythee, why so pale?

Will, if looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Prythee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?

Prythee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,

Saying nothing do't?

Prythee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move,

This cannot take her;

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:

The D--1 take her!

Sir J. Suckling.

COMPANIONS

I KNOW not of what we pondered
Or made pretty pretence to talk,

As, her hand within mine, we wandered

Toward the pool by the lime tree walk,

While the dew fell in showers from the passion flowers

And the blush-rose bent on her stalk.

I cannot recall her figure:

Was it regal as Juno's own?

Or only a trifle bigger

Than the elves who surrounded the throne Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween, By mortals in dreams alone?

What her eyes were like, I know not:
Perhaps they were blurred with tears;
And perhaps in your skies there glow not
(On the contrary) clearer spheres.
No! as to her eyes, I am just as wise
As you or the cat, my dears.

Her teeth, I presume, were "pearly":

But which was she, brunette or blonde?

Her hair, was it quaintly curly,

Or as straight as a beadle's wand?

That I failed to remark;-it was rather dark
And shadowy round the pond.

Then the hand that reposed so snugly
In mine-was it plump or spare?

Was the countenance fair or ugly?
Nay, children, you have me there!

My eyes were p'raps blurred; and besides I'd heard

That it's horribly rude to stare.

And I was I brusque and surly?

Or oppressively bland and fond? Was I partial to rising early?

Or why did we twain abscond,

All breakfastless too, from the public view
To prowl by a misty pond?

What passed, what was felt or spoken—
Whether anything passed at all—

And whether the heart was broken

That beat under that shelt'ring shawl— (If shawl she had on, which I doubt)-has gone, Yes, gone from me past recall.

Was I haply the lady's suitor?

Or her uncle? I can't make outAsk your governess, dears, or tutor.

For myself, I'm in helpless doubt

As to why we were there, who on earth we were, And what this is all about.

C. S. Calverley.

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS

She has dancing eyes and ruby lips,
Delightful boots—and away she skips.

THEY nearly strike me dumb,—
I tremble when they come

Pit-a-pat:

This palpitation means

These boots are Geraldine's-
Think of that!

O, where did hunter win

So delicate a skin

For her feet?

You lucky little kid,

You perished, so you did,
For my Sweet.

The faery stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And reveals

That the Pixies were the wags
Who tipt these funny tags,
And these heels.

What soles to charm an elf!—
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view

One printed near the tide,

O, how hard he would have tried For the two!

For Gerry's debonair,

And innocent and fair

As a rose;

She's an Angel in a frock,—
She's an Angel with a clock
To her hose!

The simpletons who squeeze
Their pretty toes to please
Mandarins,

Would positively flinch

From venturing to pinch
Geraldine's.

Cinderella's lefts and rights
To Geraldine's were frights:
And I trow

The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod

Until now.

Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don,

Set your dainty hand awhile

On my shoulders, Dear, and I'll
Put them on.

F. Locker.

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR

IN tattered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world and its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a care, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure;
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks

With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), Old rickety tables and chairs broken-backed;

A twopenny treasury wondrous to see;

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me.