A CERTAIN CURE.
["Eating sugarplums is the best cure for mundane sorrows."—A Ladies' Journal, Sept. 19.]
Whatever the sorrows that chasten your life, A cure for them all you will quickly receive, If Phyllis should prove an unsuitable wife, If children undutiful cause you to grieve, Just get at the nearest confectioner's shop, The cheap and the comforting chocolate drop!
If the treatise at which you have constantly worked, (Four volumes portraying "the Growth of Mankind,") By editors still is consistently burked, If publishers still to its merits are blind, You grieve at their foolish perversity; well, There's healing and balm in the sweet caramel.
Perhaps you may find—many do—that your debts Are steadily growing, while incomes decay, And constant attempts to increase your assets By bold speculation seem hardly to pay; Though "Turks" may decline, do not grieve at your plight, But buy, as a substitute, Turkish Delight!
In fact, if misfortunes should seem to oppress, No longer their burden you'll sadly endure, You'll have in the midst of calamity's stress A certain specific that cannot but cure; "Away with all sorrow!" our teacher repeats, "Don't grieve at existence, but taste of its sweets!"
TO ALTHEA IN CHURCH.
You weren't so far off but I knew you, I instantly knew you were there! On my Ancient and Modern I drew you Between the first hymn and the prayer. I'm glad that my eyes keen and quick are, When there are such prospects to see. You're looking straight up at the Vicar— I wish you'd look over at me!
You've a hat that is gauzy and shady, Your gown is a delicate grey— So fair and so dainty a lady Ne'er entered the Church till to-day! Your chaperon quietly dozes. Would I were a wizard, for you! A wave of my wand, and with roses Should suddenly blossom your pew