"THE RIFT WITHIN THE LUTE."
It surely sounds a pretty phrase,
Some pöesy for woe it wins,
Commemorating roundelays
And troubadours and mandolins:
We seem to view some minstrel-boy
Beside his shattered music mute,
The shattered string, the ruined joy—
The Rift within the Lute.
How swift the slip from tune to twang!
Sweets bitter grow, as aye they did;
For e'en the Roman poet sang
"Surgit amari aliquid."
Our pigmy worries turn us grey;
And sorrows fierce are less acute;
Our hearts are riddled every day
With Rifts within the Lute.
You envy FORTUNATUS—rich—
A charming bride—subservient friends.
To rival him were something which
The dream of Avarice transcends.
That charming bride a mother owns
Whom FORTUNATUS brands a brute:
She mars his life's entrancing tones—
His Rift within the Lute!
Then, PEREGRINE—he journeys far;
Unshackled, he by toil's routine:
By turns he quaffs a samovar
Or sherbet, as he shifts his scene.
"Strong as a horse!"—ah! there's the string
That snaps asunder—"to recruit."
He wanders, manufacturing
A Rift within his Lute.
And DULCINEA! What a life!
Adoring crowds, adornments rare
And many fain to call her wife,
And sue her smiles in Belgrave Square.
And yet her Fetch-and-carry swears
He heard her, while he pressed his suit,
Sigh, "Bored to desperation!"—there's
A Rift within that Lute.
What need more trivial ills to quote,
The freshly-furnished house that shines,
The coxcomb's fashionable coat,
Both brushed and polished "to the nines,"
Both yielding to some fatal flaw;
A crack; a fiend who plays the flute;
Both, both examples of the law
Of Rift within the Lute.
Whate'er the dulcet instrument
We favour, still the lilt will stop;
And with a gorgeous chalice blent
Oft lurks the tiny poisoned drop.
I'm not so spry myself to-night;
I'll try a dose of arrowroot.
You'll own that Indigestion's quite
A Rift in any Lute!
"WALKER ART GALLERY."—Show commences this week at Liverpool. The WALKER was a Genius. But is this show all "Walker," or the genuine article? Has Mr. J.L. TOOLE, of Walker, London, anything to do with it? No doubt it's quite "'O.K.' WALKER, Liverpool."
POLITICAL PRIZE RING RIDDLE.—Why was the win of the Gladstonian Party at Newcastle like the triumph of a single-fisted pugilist over his two-handed opponent? Because the victory was achieved with one "MORLEY."
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