No. 57.—Rhyming Charade.
My first moon, in her regal car,
In thronely pomp rides past;
She trips a silver serenade
Round my secluded last.
My last has borne the pelting blasts
Two hundred years twice told;
Its loop-holed battlements to-day
Rear grandly as of old.
Our first laid schemes we plumb and build
In sorrow, be it known;
Like fabled last high-poised in air
Are quickly levelled down.
My dual parts will rightly sketch,
If roughly scribbled down,
A city in an English shire
And in a Delaware town.
J. E. Bennett.
New York.