YOUNG GIRL.
It all seems strangely marred to me.
OLD MAN.
Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound
The brightest of yon company.
The flowers that should eclipse Glycere
Are hers, poor child,—her grave is here!
VÆ VICTIS.
"My Kate, at the Waterloo Column,
To-morrow, precisely at eight;
Remember, thy promise was solemn,
And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!"
* * * * *
That evening seemed strangely to linger,—
The licence and luggage were packed;
And Time, with a long and short finger,
Approvingly marked me exact.
Arrived, woman's constancy blessing,
No end of nice people I see;
Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,—
But none of them waiting for me.