Thou sayest our friends are only dead
To idle mirth and sorrow,
Regretful tears for what is fled,
And yearnings for to-morrow.
Alas, that love should know alloy—
How frail the cup that holds our joy!
Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to rove
Those paths of asphodel;
Where all we prize, and all who love,
Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell?
Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand,
To lead thee through a better land.
Why wish the fleeting years to stay?—
When time for us is flown,
There is this garden,—far away,
An Eden all our own:
And there I'll whisper in thine ear
—Ah! what I may not tell thee here!
MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION.
Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella
That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella."
Letters from Rome.
Miss Tristram's poulet ended thus: "Nota bene,
We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini."
Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina,"
(The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina).
We started—I'll own that my family deem
That I'm soft—but I'm not quite so soft as I seem;
As we crossed the stones gently the nursemaids said "La!
There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa."