A CHOICE

They please me not—these solemn songs

That hint of sermons covered up.

'Tis true the world should heed its wrongs,

But in a poem let me sup,

Not simples brewed to cure or ease

Humanity's confessed disease,

But the spirit-wine of a singing line,

Or a dew-drop in a honey cup!

HUMOUR AND DIALECT

He loved her, and through many years,

Had paid his fair devoted court,

Until she wearied, and with sneers

Turned all his ardent love to sport.

That night within his chamber lone,

He long sat writing by his bed

A note in which his heart made moan

For love; the morning found him dead.