Oldalképek
PDF
ePub
[blocks in formation]

January 27, 1868,

And so they ought;

For to them doth belong,

If not the sincerest

Outburst of song

That ever was thought,
At least the dearest
That ever was bought.

"M." Dublin Paper. Tennyson's The Victim was curiously anticipated by The Prophet Enoch, a poem by James Burton Robertson (London, James Blackwood, 1860), in which the following passage occurs :"One victim more!' a thousand voices cry; 'One victim more !' resounds the cave of gloom. Lo! borne on lofty car, 'mid savage cries Of a wild band, a costlier victim comes.

It is a lovely stripling, o'er whose cheek
Youth hath her earliest purple bloom suffused :
In rich luxuriant curls his locks descend,

Twined with the fatal flowers that sweetly mock
The victim they adorn. Wild with despair,
His shrieking mother grasps the iron wheel
Of the inexorable car: she spurns

The fierce rebukes, or menace of the throng,
To catch the last glimpse of her darling boy.

'Ah! spare my son; shed mine own blood instead :
My life may satisfy your vengeful gods!"
Exclaims the hapless matron, but in vain.

THE THREE COURSES OF ACHILLES. Mr. Gladstone's fondness for Homer is well known, and he was doubtless one of the first to read the Laureate's lines in the Nineteenth Century, called "Achilles Over the Trench." This Trojan hero will now be dearer than ever to the Premier, for the Laureate's lines show him to be a man strangely after the "People's William's" own heart. Thus, it is matter of public notoriety that Mr. Gladstone thinks thrice before he makes his mind up to any great matter, and he is

curious, then, to find that Achilles, too, has what may be termed a "triologic" bent of mind! Evidently it was not till he had thought thrice that he remained sulking in his tent. And when he came out and fought, we find, from Alfred Tennyson, that—

"Thrice from the dyke he sent his mighty shout, Thrice backward reel'd the Trojans and allies." The fragment of verse is incomplete, but we have little doubt that when we see it complete, we shall read something of this kind :—

"Thrice rolled his glowing eye, with fury fired,
And thrice his spear leapt forward at the foe;
Whilst as the sinking sun proclaimed it three,
He thrice imbued it in the Trojan's blood.
Then stood he where three stones were rudely piled,
And thrice he thought what next his course should be;
Thrice wiped the triple tears that dewed his cheek,
Thrice muttered words I care not to repeat ;
Then murmuring his mother's name three times,
Made up his mind to slaughter three more foes.
So thrice again his spear was launched in space,
And three miles off, within Troy's triple walls,
Three widows, each with children three, were left
To mourn that he, Achilles, had not thought
Four times that afternoon instead of three.'

From Funny Folks.

UNFORTUNATE MISS BAILEY. An Experiment.

(A parody of the Lord of Burleigh.) WHEN he whispers, "O. Miss Bailey,

Thou art brightest of the throng!" She makes murmur, softly, gaily

[ocr errors]

Alfred, I have loved thee long."

Then he drops upon his knees, a

Proof his heart is soft as wax ; She's I don't know who; but he's a Captain bold from Halifax.

Though so loving, such another

Artless bride was never seen;

Coachee thinks that she's his mother--
Till they get to Gretna Green.
There they stand by him attended,
Hear the sable smith rehearse
That which links them, when 'tis ended,
Tight for better or for worse.
Now her heart rejoices-ugly

Troubles need disturb her less-
Now the Happy Pair are snugly
Seated in the night express.

So they go with fond emotion,

So they journey through the night;
London is their land of Goschen--
See its suburbs are in sight!
Hark, the sound of life is swelling,

Pacing up, and racing down;
Soon they reach her simple dwelling-
Burley-street, by Somers Town.
What is there to so astound them?

She cries "Oh !" for he cries "Hah!" When five brats emerge-confound them!

[blocks in formation]

I HOLD it truth, with him who rings
His money on a testing stone
To judge its goodness by its tone,
That gold wili buy all other things.

It hides the ravages of years;

It gilds the matrimonial match;
It makes deformity "a catch;"
And dries the sorrowing widow's tears.

Let love grasp cash, lest both be drowned;
Let Mammon keep his gilded gloss;

Ah, easier far to bear the loss
Of love, than of a thousand pound!
Let not the victor say with scorn,

While of his winnings he may boast, "Behold the man who played and lost, And now is weak and overworn."

II.

O, Fortune, fickle as the breeze!
O, Temptress, at the shrine of gain!
O, sweet and bitter!--all in vain

I come to thee for monied ease!
"The chances surely run," she says;
But prick the series with a pin;
Mark well; and then go in and win!-
Or lose! for there are but two ways.
And still the phantom, Fortune, stands
And sings with siren silvery tone;
Music that I may reach alone
With empty purse and empty hands!
And shall I still this fickle fair
With constant energies pursue?
Or do as other people do-
Escape the tangles of her hair?

XXVII.

I envy not in any mood

The mortal void of Mammon's lust, Who never to a chance will trust,

I envy not the plodding boor,
Whose stupid ignorant content
Cares not if odds on an event
Are 2 to 1 or 10 to 4.

Nor him who counts himself as blest,
And says, "I take the wiser way,
Because for love alone I play,
So gambling never breaks my rest."
I hold it true, whate'er befall,
I feel it when I lose the most,
'Tis better to have play'd and lost
Than never to have played at all.

(Name of Author not known).

PUNCH TO SALISBURY.

I hold it true, whate'er befall,

Though Jingo bounce and patriot rail, 'Twere better far to meet and fail, Than never try to meet at all.

THE RINKER'S SOLACE.

I hold it true whoe'er may fall,
I feel it when I tumble most,
'Tis better to have rinked and lost
Than never to have rinked at all.
Tennyson (revised).

BEHIND TIME.

She looked quite cross-her face had not
The smile that once lured one and all,.
While waiting at that seaside spot

For him she loved ;-divinely tall;
Her sloe-black eyes showed restless change,
Small sparks of anger you might catch,
And yet those eyes you could not match,
Were you throughout the world to range,
"Alas! I'm getting weary, weary—
Waiting here for Fred;

He said he'd take me sailing-query?
He's not come yet," she said.
"He asked me when we met last night,
If I would like a sail or row;

I answered 'Yes,' with great delight;
He said at one o'clock we'd go.
'Tis now five minutes past the hour,
And where is he, I'd like to know?
Oh! if I did not love him so

I'd punish him-and show my pow'r.
But oh, alas! it is so dreary

When I am not with Fred;

I feel like Moore's lamenting Peri:
Why won't he come?" she said.

The tear-drops then welled from her eyes,
And down her damask cheek they crept;
Her bosom heaved with sundry sighs,
She cried, "I'll no excuse accept.

I will not speak to him," said she;
"How dare he keep me waiting here?"
When suddenly, approaching near,
Her tardy swain she chanced to see;
And then, forgetting she'd been weary,
She cried, "Oh, here comes Fred !"
And somehow then she seemed less dreary,
"How nice he looks!" she said.

H. C. NEWTON,

[graphic]
[graphic]
[ocr errors]
[graphic]
« ElőzőTovább »