DISENCHANTMENT My Love has sicklied unto Loath,
And foul seems all that fair I fancied—
The lily's sheen's a leprous growth,
The very buttercups are rancid. ABASEMENT With matted head a-dabble in the dust,
And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust
I lie all loathly in my rags and rust—
Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust.
STANZA WRITTEN IN DEPRESSION NEAR DULWICH The lark soars up in the air;
The toad sits tight in his hole;
And I would I were certain which of the pair
Were the truer type of my soul!
TO MY LADY Twine, lanken fingers, lily-lithe,
Gleam, slanted eyes, all beryl-green,
Pout, blood-red lips that burst a-writhe,
Then—kiss me, Lady Grisoline!
THE MONSTER Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,
Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;
Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,
Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing.
A TRUMPET BLAST Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence,
Blink your blearèd eyes. Behold the Sun—
Burst proclaim in purpurate effulgence,
Demos dawning, and the Darkness done!
F. Anstey.

THE ROMAUNT OF HUMPTY DUMPTY

'Tis midnight, and the moonbeam sleeps
Upon the garden sward;
My lady in yon turret keeps
Her tearful watch and ward.
"Beshrew me!" mutters, turning pale,
The stalwart seneschal;
"What's he, that sitteth, clad in mail
Upon our castle wall?"
"Arouse thee, friar of orders grey;
What ho! bring book and bell!
Ban yonder ghastly thing, I say;
And, look ye, ban it well!
By cock and pye, the Humpty's face!"
The form turned quickly round;
Then totter'd from its resting-place— That night the corse was found.
The king, with hosts of fighting men
Rode forth at break of day;
Ah! never gleamed the sun till then
On such a proud array.

But all that army, horse and foot,
Attempted, quite in vain,
Upon the castle wall to put
The Humpty up again.
Henry S. Leigh.

THE WEDDING

Lady Clara Vere de Vere!
I hardly know what I must say,
But I'm to be Queen of the May, mother,
I'm to be Queen of the May!
I am half-crazed; I don't feel grave,
Let me rave!
Whole weeks and months, early and late,
To win his love I lay in wait.
Oh, the Earl was fair to see,
As fair as any man could be;—
The wind is howling in turret and tree!
We two shall be wed tomorrow morn,
And I shall be the Lady Clare,
And when my marriage morn shall fall,
I hardly know what I shall wear.
But I shan't say "my life is dreary,"
And sadly hang my head,
With the remark, "I'm very weary,
And wish that I were dead."
But on my husband's arm I'll lean,
And roundly waste his plenteous gold,
Passing the honeymoon serene
In that new world which is the old.
For down we'll go and take the boat
Beside St. Katherine's docks afloat,
Which round about its prow has wrote—
"The Lady of Shalotter"
(Mondays and Thursdays,—Captain Foat),
Bound for the Dam of Rotter.
Thomas Hood, Jr.

IN MEMORIAM TECHNICAM

I count it true which sages teach—
That passion sways not with repose,
That love, confounding these with those,
Is ever welding each with each.
And so when time has ebbed away,
Like childish wreaths too lightly held,
The song of immemorial eld
Shall moan about the belted bay.
Where slant Orion slopes his star,
To swelter in the rolling seas,
Till slowly widening by degrees
The grey climbs upward from afar.
And golden youth and passion stray
Along the ridges of the strand,—
Not far apart, but hand in hand,—
With all the darkness danced away!
Thomas Hood, Jr.