MY PARTNER

At Cheltenham, where one drinks one's fill, Of folly and cold water,

I danced last year my first quadrille

With old Sir Geoffrey's daughter.
Her cheek with summer's rose might vie,
When summer's rose is newest;
Her eyes were blue as autumn's sky,
When autumn's sky is bluest;

And well my heart might deem her one
Of life's most precious flowers,
For half her thoughts were of its sun,
And half were of its showers.

I spoke of novels: - "Vivian Grey"
Was positively charming,
And "Almacks infinitely gay,

And "Frankenstein" alarming;
I said "De Vere " was chastely told,
Thought well of "Herbert Lacy,"
Called Mr. Banim's sketches "bold,"
And Lady Morgan's "racy;"

I vowed that last new thing of Hook's
Was vastly entertaining:

And Laura said "I dote on books,
Because it's always raining!"

I talked of Music's gorgeous fane;
I raved about Rossini,

Hoped Renzi would come back again,
And criticised Pacini;

I wished the chorus-singers dumb,
The trumpets more pacific,
And eulogized Brocard's à plomb,
And voted Paul "terrific!"

What cared she for Medea's pride,

Or Desdemona's sorrow?

Alas!" my beauteous listener sighed, "We must have rain to-morrow!"

I told her tales of other lands;
Of ever-boiling fountains,

Of poisonous lakes and barren sands,
Vast forests, trackless mountains;
I painted bright Italian skies,
I lauded Persian roses,
Coined similes for Spanish eyes,
And jests for Indian noses;
I laughed at Lisbon's love of mass,
Vienna's dread of treason:

And Laura asked me where the glass
Stood, at Madrid, last season.

I broached whate'er had gone its rounds,
The week before, of scandal;
What made Sir Luke lay down his hounds,
And Jane take up her Handel;

Why Julia walked upon the heath,

With the pale moon above her; Where Flora lost her false front teeth,

And Anna her falser lover;

How Lord de B. and Mrs. L.

Had crossed the sea together:

My shuddering partner cried, “O Cie!!
How could they, — in such weather?”

Was she a Blue? - I put my trust
In strata, petals, gases;

A boudoir-pedant? I discussed
The toga and the fasces:

A Cockney-Muse? I mouthed a deal
Of folly from “Endymion;”

A saint? I praised the pious zeal
Of Messrs. Way and Simeon;

A politician? - It was vain

To quote the morning paper;
The horrid phantoms came again,
Rain, Hail, and Snow, and Vapor.

Flat flattery was my only chance:
I acted deep devotion,
Found magic in her every glance,
Grace in her every motion;

I wasted all a stripling's lore,
Prayer, passion, folly, feeling;
And wildly looked upon the floor,
And mildly on the ceiling.

I envied gloves upon her arm

And shawls upon her shoulder;

And, when my worship was most warm,
She- never found it colder."

66

I don't object to wealth or land;
And she will have the giving
Of an extremely pretty hand,

Some thousands, and a living.
She makes silk purses, broiders stools,
Sings sweetly, dances finely,

Paints screens, subscribes to Sunday-schools,
And sits a horse divinely.

But to be linked for life to her!

--

The desperate man who tried it

Might marry a Barometer

And hang himself beside it!

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

My coachman, in the moonlight there,
Looks through the side-light of the door;
I hear him with his brethren swear,
As I could do, but only more.

Flattening his nose against the pane,
He envies me my brilliant lot,
Breathes on his aching fist in vain,
And dooms me to a place more hot.

He sees me in to supper go,

A silken wonder by my side,

Bare arms, bare shoulders, and a row
Of flounces, for the door too wide.

He thinks how happy is my arm,

'Neath its white-gloved and jewelled load;

And wishes me some dreadful harm,
Hearing the merry corks explode.

Meanwhile I inly curse the bore
Of hunting still the same old coon,
And envy him, outside the door,
The golden quiet of the moon.

The winter wind is not so cold
As the bright smile he sees me win,
Nor the host's oldest wine so old
As our poor gabble, sour and thin.

I envy him the rugged prance

By which his freezing feet he warms, And drag my lady's chains, and dance, The galley-slave of dreary forms.

Oh, could he have my share of din,
And I his quiet past a doubt
'Twould still be one man bored within,
And just another bored without.

James Russell Lowell

ON AN OLD MUFF

Time has a magic wand!
What is this meets my hand,
Moth-eaten, mouldy, and
Cover'd with fluff?

Faded, and stiff, and scant;
Can it be? no, it can't-
Yes, I declare, it's Aunt
Prudence's Muff!

Years ago, twenty-three,
Old Uncle Doubledee
Gave it to Aunty P.

Laughing and teasing

"Pru., of the breezy curls,

Question those solemn churls, —