The rest upon an upper floor;-
Some little luxury there
Of red morocco's gilded gleam

And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these,
Which others often show for pride,
I value for their power to please,

And selfish churls deride;

One Stradivarius, I confess,

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn,

Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;—
Shall not carved tables serve my turn,
But all must be of buhl?

Give grasping pomp its double share,—
I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die,
Nor long for Midas' golden touch;
If Heaven more generous gifts deny,
I shall not miss them much,-
Too grateful for the blessing lent
Of simple tastes and mind content!

O. W. Holmes.

PROSE AND RHYME

WHEN the roads are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,

There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,

And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,

And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,

Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,

When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a formal cut,"

66

There is place and enough for the pains of prose;— But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to a golden prime,❞— And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,

Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If” and “But,"

There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—
But whenever a soft glance softer grows,
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

ENVOY

In the work-a-day world,-for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

A. Dobson.

WITH STRAWBERRIES

WITH strawberries we filled a tray,
And then we drove away, away

Along the links beside the sea,

Where wave and wind were light and free,

And August felt as fresh as May.

And where the springy turf was gay
With thyme and balm and many a spray
Of wild roses, you tempted me

With strawberries!

A shadowy sail, silent and grey,
Stole like a ghost across the bay;

But none could hear me ask my fee,

And none could know what came to be. Can sweethearts all their thirst allay

With strawberries?

W. E. Henley.

JENNY KISSED ME

JENNY kissed me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in:
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,

Say that health and wealth have missed me, Say I'm growing old, but add,

Jenny kissed me.

L. Hunt.

POEMS IN A MINOR KEY

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a Love once, fairest among women:
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her-
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?
So might we talk of the old familiar faces,

How some they have died, and some they have left me,
And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

C. Lamb.

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never come back to me.

A. Tennyson.

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS

OFT in the stilly night

Ere slumber's chain has bound me,

Fond Memory brings the light

Of other days around me:

The smiles, the tears

Of boyhood's years,

The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimm'd and gone,

The cheerful hearts now broken!