Long with vow and kiss he plied her;
Still the secret did she keep,
Till at length he sank beside her,
Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.
Soon was Helen laid in slumber,
When her Paris, rising slow,
Did his fair neck disencumber
From her rounded arms of snow.
Then, her heedless fingers oping,
Takes the key and steals away,
To the ebon table groping,
Where the wondrous casket lay;
Eagerly the lid uncloses,
Sees within it, laid aslope,
PEAR'S LIQUID BLOOM OF ROSES,
Cakes of his TRANSPARENT SOAP!
SONG OF THE ENNUYE
I'm weary, and sick, and disgusted
With Britain's mechanical din;
Where I'm much too well known to be trusted,
And plaguily pestered for tin;
Where love has two eyes for your hanker,
And one chilly glance for yourself;
Where souls can afford to be franker,
But when they're well garnished with pelf.
I'm sick of the whole race of poets,
Emasculate, misty, and fine;
They brew their small-heer, and don't know its
Distinction from full-bodied wine.
I'm sick of the prosers, that house up
At drowsy St Stephen's,—ain't you?
I want some strong spirits to rouse up
A good revolution or two!
I'm sick of a land, where each morrow
Repeats the dull tale of to-day,
Where you can't even find a new sorrow
To chase your stale pleasures away.