AN UNFORTUNATE LIKENESS.-W. S. GILBERT.

I've painted Shakspeare all my life,—
"An infant," (even then at play!)
"A boy," with stage-ambition rife,
Then "Married to Ann Hathaway."

"The bard's first ticket night," (or “ben.”)
His "First appearance on the stage,"
His "Call before the curtain,"-then
'Rejoicings when he came of age."

The bard play-writing in his room,
The bard a humble lawyer's clerk,
The bard a lawyer-parson-groom-
The bard deer-stealing after dark.

The bard a tradesman-and a Jew-
The bard a botanist-a beak-
The bard a skilled musician too-
A sheriff and a surgeon eke!

Yet critics say (a friendly stock)
That, though it's evident I try,

Yet even I can barely mock

The glimmer of his wondrous eye!

One morning, as a work I framed,
There passed a person, walking hard:
"My gracious goodness," I exclaimed,
How very like my dear old bard!'

66

"Oh! what a model he would make!"
I rushed outside-impulsive me!-
"Forgive the liberty I take,

But you're so very-" "Stop!" said he,

66 You needn't waste your breath or time,I know what you are going to say,-That you're an artist, and that I'm

Remarkably like Shakspeare. Eh?

You wish that I would sit to you?"

I clasped him madly round the waist,

Ad breathlessly replied, "I do!"

"All right,” said he, “but please make haste."

His eyeballs glistened in his eyes

I sat and watched and smoked my pipe; "Bravo!" I said, “I recognize

The phrensy of your prototype!"

His scanty hair he wildly tore:

"That's right," said I, "it shows your breed.” He danced-he stamped-he wildly swore

Bless me, that's very fine indeed!"

"Sir," said the grand Shaksperian boy,
(Continuing to blaze away,)

"You think my face a source of joy;
That shows you know not what you say.

"Forgive these yells and cellar-flaps :
I'm always thrown in some such state
When on his face well-meaning chaps
This wretched man congratulate.

"For oh! this face-this pointed chinThis nose-this brow-these eyeballs too, Have always been the origin

Of all the woes I ever knew!

"If to the play my way I find,

To see a grand Shaksperian piece,
I have no rest, no ease of mind
Until the author's puppets cease!

"Men nudge each, other-thus-and say,
'This certainly is Shakspeare's son,'
And merry wags (of course in play)
Cry 'Author!' when the piece is done.

"In church the people stare at me,

Their soul the sermon never binds;

I catch them looking round to see,—

And thoughts of Shakspeare fill their minds.

"And sculptors, fraught with cunning wile,
Who find it difficult to crown

A bust with Brown's insipid smile,
Or Tomkins's unmannered frown,

"Yet boldly make my face their own,
When (oh, presumption!) they require
To animate a paving-stone

With Shakspeare's intellectual fire.

"At parties where young ladies gaze,
And I attempt to speak my joy,
'Hush, pray,' some lovely creature says,
"The fond illusion don't destroy!'

"Whene'er I speak my soul is wrung

With these or some such whisperings:
"Tis pity that a Shakspeare's tongue
Should say such un-Shaksperian things!'

"I should not thus be criticised
Had I a face of common wont:
Don't envy me-now, be advised!"
And, now I think of it, I don't.

A KISS AT THE DOOR.

We were standing in the doorway,
My little wife and I:

The golden sun upon her hair
Fell down so silently;

A small white hand upon my arm,-
What could I ask for more

Than the kindly glance of loving eyes,
As she kissed me at the door?

I know she loves with all her heart
The one who stands beside,
And the years have been so joyous,
Since first I called her bride;

We've had so much of happiness
Since we met in years before,

But the happiest time of all was when
She kissed me at the door.

Who cares for wealth of land or gold,
For fame or matchless power?
It does not give the happiness
Of just one little hour

With one who loves me as her life-
She says she loves me more-
And I thought she did this morning,
When she kissed me at the door.

At times it seems that all the world,
With all its wealth of gold,

Is very small and poor indeed,
Compared with what I hold;

And when the clouds hang grim and dark,
I only think the more

Of one who waits the coming step
To kiss me at the door.

This I moreover hold, and dare

Affirm where'er my rhyme may go,-
Whatever things be sweet or fair,
Love makes them so.

Whether it be the lullabies

That charm to rest the nursing bird,
Or that sweet confidence of sighs
And blushes, made without a word.

Whether the dazzling and the flush
Of softly sumptuous garden bowers,
Or by some cabin door, a bush
Of ragged flowers.

'Tis not the wide phylactery,

Nor stubborn fasts, nor stated prayers, That make us saints; we judge the tree By what it bears.