In a nest of weeds and nettles,
Lay a violet, half hidden;
Hoping that his glance unbidden
Yet might fall upon her petals.
Though she lived alone, apart,
Hope lay nestling at her heart,
But, alas! the cruel awaking
Set her little heart a-breaking,
For he gathered for his posies
Only roses—only roses!
THE ROVER’S APOLOGY
Oh, gentlemen, listen, I pray;
Though I own that my heart has been ranging,
Of nature the laws I obey,
For nature is constantly changing.
The moon in her phases is found,
The time and the wind and the weather,
The months in succession come round,
And you don’t find two Mondays together.
Consider the moral, I pray,
Nor bring a young fellow to sorrow,
Who loves this young lady to-day,
And loves that young lady to-morrow!
You cannot eat breakfast all day.
Nor is it the act of a sinner,
When breakfast is taken away,
To turn your attention to dinner;
And it’s not in the range of belief
That you could hold him as a glutton,
Who, when he is tired of beef,
Determines to tackle the mutton.
But this I am ready to say,
If it will diminish their sorrow,
I’ll marry this lady to-day,
And I’ll marry that lady to-morrow!
AN APPEAL
Oh! is there not one maiden breast
Which does not feel the moral beauty
Of making worldly interest
Subordinate to sense of duty?
Who would not give up willingly
All matrimonial ambition
To rescue such a one as I
From his unfortunate position?
Oh, is there not one maiden here,
Whose homely face and bad complexion
Have caused all hopes to disappear
Of ever winning man’s affection?
To such a one, if such there be,
I swear by heaven’s arch above you,
If you will cast your eyes on me,—
However plain you be—I’ll love you!
THE REWARD OF MERIT
Dr. Belville was regarded as the Crichton of his age:
His tragedies were reckoned much too thoughtful for the stage;
His poems held a noble rank, although it’s very true
That, being very proper, they were read by very few.
He was a famous Painter, too, and shone upon the “line,”
And even Mr. Ruskin came and worshipped at his shrine;
But, alas, the school he followed was heroically high—
The kind of Art men rave about, but very seldom buy;
And everybody said
“How can he be repaid—
This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?”
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!
He was a great Inventor, and discovered, all alone,
A plan for making everybody’s fortune but his own;
For, in business, an Inventor’s little better than a fool,
And my highly-gifted friend was no exception to the rule.
His poems—people read them in the Quarterly Reviews—
His pictures—they engraved them in the Illustrated News—
His inventions—they, perhaps, might have enriched him by degrees,
But all his little income went in Patent Office fees;
And everybody said
“How can he be repaid—
This very great—this very good—this very gifted man?”
But nobody could hit upon a practicable plan!