3
Upon my face is not a single hair,
Although my beard uncut is growing there.
Men call me Shelley, though I can’t converse,
To me all tongues alike would be a curse.
I in my house must night and day abide,
And though quite well must keep my bed, outside.
For me no bell shall toll a funeral knell,
I’m doomed, like Shelley, dead to have no shell.
4
This amusing Charade is from the pen of a wise and witty Irish Bishop:—
True to the trumpet call of fame and duty
The soldier arms, and hastens to depart;
Nor casts one look behind, though love and beauty
Whisper my first in tones that thrill his heart.
The war is o’er, with wealth and honour laden
The hero seeks the well-remembered Hall:
He woos and wins the unreluctant maiden,
And bids my second o’er her blushes fall.
He takes her hand—a mist of rapture thickens
Before her eyes. Such bliss succeeding pain
O’ertasks her strength, and fainting nature sickens,
Until my whole is rudely snapt in twain.