TO PHŒBE. [59]
“Gentle, modest little flower,
Sweet epitome of May,
Love me but for half an hour,
Love me, love me, little fay.”
Sentences so fiercely flaming
In your tiny shell-like ear,
I should always be exclaiming
If I loved you, Phœbe dear.
“Smiles that thrill from any distance
Shed upon me while I sing!
Please ecstaticize existence,
Love me, oh, thou fairy thing!”
Words like these, outpouring sadly
You’d perpetually hear,
If I loved you fondly, madly;—
But I do not, Phœbe dear.
BAINES CAREW, GENTLEMAN.
Of all the good attorneys who
Have placed their names upon the roll,
But few could equal Baines Carew
For tender-heartedness and soul.
Whene’er he heard a tale of woe
From client A or client B,
His grief would overcome him so
He’d scarce have strength to take his fee.
It laid him up for many days,
When duty led him to distrain,
And serving writs, although it pays,
Gave him excruciating pain.
He made out costs, distrained for rent,
Foreclosed and sued, with moistened eye—
No bill of costs could represent
The value of such sympathy.
No charges can approximate
The worth of sympathy with woe;—
Although I think I ought to state
He did his best to make them so.
Of all the many clients who
Had mustered round his legal flag,
No single client of the crew
Was half so dear as Captain Bagg.