FRIENDS OF THE FUTURE.
First among whom is
BAGNOLE.
Face such as would-be Byron youths all crave,
Impenetrable, gloomy as the grave;
Voice, a 'French-gray,' the promise of the face,
You'd swear he thought to laugh, a deep disgrace.
Behold the mask of a bacchantine soul,
Drinking deep draughts from life's enchanting bowl.
Whether the bowl be from Cellini's hand.
If rude, still crowning it with Fancy's flowers,
Laughing at Time, and flirting with her Hours.
He is not pious, and to church won't go;
He says he can't—'tis so extremely slow.'
Bagnolè! with the 'goats' you're set apart'
And yet, how can we wish a 'change of heart'
In one like thee—great-minded, brave, and true!
Ah! what a world, if all were such as you!
But I forget—he's tender to the weak:
To the sad Magdalene he'll kindly speak
Words of pure gold—not that base metal thing
Which falls like lead and gives no friendly ring;
Opening the wound, to see if it is deep,
Arousing thought, to see if' tis asleep!
'Tendir and treue,' us Douglas was of old,
How far they see, who call thee 'tame and cold'!
Tame! as a tiger: cold! as hot as flame!
Where does he board, and what, oh! what's his name?
L'INCONNUE.
Dark Passion-flower, with keen mimosa-leaves,
Into my life your fate her shuttle weaves.
How long those wistful eyes have haunted mine—
Brown eyes of earth—they have no light divine.
Brown eyes! ye fill my soul with burning love—
No Pantheon soul—lighted from above!
O sister mine! you'll come to me at last—
That shall atone for all our weary past.
So pure thou art, with soul so joyous, free.
The world could not forgive—and hated thee!
To be 'unlike the world,' is thy dark sin.
You or 'the world'? the 'you' my heart shall win.
Within that shrine, so delicately fair,
Burns a bright spirit which 'a world' can dare;
She mocks 'the world,' but she would die for me.
Her heart is fathomed by eternity;
And yet she's always 'in the fashion' dressed,
And 'wants a cashmere,' (she to me confessed.)
Oh! you can see her, almost any day,
Hat of pale violet, dress of silver-gray.
She goes to parties and the 'Music-Hall;'
She eats her dinner, and she gives a ball.
You nod and smile: 'We know her now—we see!'
Perhaps! Alas! she's quite unknown to me!
MARIE.
How can I tell you if her face be fair,
While the gay sunshine of her smile is there?
How can I tell you of a brilliant mind,
When every word she speaks is angel-kind?
Need I describe her voice, so melting sweet?
Or the small mouth, which is its passage meet!
I only know, while for her voice I wait,
I see fair pearls behind that rosy gate.
But when she speaks, her diamond-wit's so bright,
All other beauties vanish from our sight.
No need for her to fear 'the world's rebuff!
Too much of Marie's always just enough I
She is 'bad company,' yet e'en 'the good'
Can find no flaw in her fair maidenhood.
The saints don't doubt that she is in their fold—
It makes me laugh to think how they are 'sold.'
Nice, naughty folks are sure, she's of their creed,
Yet she's no hypocrite, in word or deed.
What is she, then—this gem without a flaw?
She is—she is—a maid-en made of 'straw'!
Reader, have you in your house a vivarium or aquarium, or any other variety of animal curiosity-shop, under care of the younger members? If so, the subjoined sketch may awaken in your mind more than one vivid souvenir, We know, at all events, that some of its 'features' were founded on facts; that is, if a 'feature' can be 'founded.' However, we take the phrase from—but no, we are sufficiently abused by the Democratic editors, as it is.
Editor of the Continental: Among the lesser joys of maternity, that of having your children interested in a vivarium is one of the least—in fact, it is an elephantine sorrow.
James, my eldest son, is a genius; before he was twelve years old, he invented a rat-trap, which not only caught rats, but cut off their tails and—let them go. At thirteen, he spoke Italian so fluently that he caused a hand-organ grinder to throw a brick at him. At fourteen, he came home one day with six large panes of glass, some tin and putty, and made a vivarium, a thing full of mud, water, leeches, dirty weeds, and other improvements.
When James had finished his glass case, he placed it in the front drawing-room window, so that the public might behold that exquisite process of nature, tadpoles turning into spring water-chickens, as they call frogs on hotel bill of fares. Unfortunately, the gold fish he put in with them killed the tadpoles while they still wiggled, and a pickerel that he had bought of a fellow-school-boy for half-price, its tail being ragged, ate up the gold-fish.