At night bare feet on flowers!

Run! in the magpie's shadow.

I do not love thee, Dr Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell.

Issa, perter than the sparrow,
That poor Lesbia's soul could harrow;
Issa, purer than the love,
Of Ianthis' billing dove;
Issa, than a maid more fond;
Issa, Indian gems beyond;
Issa, most enchanting chub!
Pup, the darling of my Pub!
She can speak her wants and woes:
She both joy and sorrow knows.
On his neck her bed she makes;
And her silken slumbers takes:
Nay, so soft does Somnus ply,
No one can detect a sigh.


Lest the fatal final day
Rap his charmer all away;
Publius, prescient of his woe,
Bade her by the pencil glow.

If you would scan the beauties of a pup;
The page is out, and not the total up.

The amphitheatre, my scene;
A huntress, by the masters bred:
At home, ingenuous, fond, serene;
Tho' of the forests fierce the dread.

The trusty Lydia was my name:
My faith so by my patron prized,
To me, he spurned each dog of fame;
And had Erigone's despised:

Had flouted him, renowned of old,
For true sublime Dictian breed;
Who solaced Cephalus, we 're told;
Alike, among the stars, decreed.

Not wasteful time, or useless age,
That laid the staunch-Dulichian low,
Have swept fair Lydia from the stage;
Or fang of any common foe.

Behold the feeble deer, what war they rage;
In timid breasts what baleful furies rage!
For death reciprocal each forehead bounds;
In mercy, feeling Cæsar, send the hounds.

“Some old song!” his master cried; and so
'T was Love he carolled of.
“Some new song!” his lady sighed, and lo,
He sang to her of Love!

Lay the little limbs out straight;
Gently tend the sacred clay;
Sorrow-shaded is our fate—
Baby died to-day.

Fold the hands across the breast,
So, as when he knelt to pray;
Leave him to his dreamless rest—
Baby died to-day.

Voice, whose prattling infant-lore
Was the music of our way,
Now is hushed for evermore—
Baby died to-day.

Sweet blue eyes, whose sunny gleams
Made our waking moments gay,
Now can shine but in our dreams—
Baby died to-day.

Still a smile is on his face,
But it lacks the joyous play

It was a lovely lady
With manners of the best;
She was finely educated
She was exquisitely dressed.
With a topic philanthropic
She arose to fill her place
In the program which was builded
For to elevate the race
She arose with highest purpose
Her noble best to do—
There were seven other ladies
Who were on the program too

The lady read her paper
Till her hearers wore a frown;
The chairman was a lady
And she would not ring her down;
And when the chairman hinted
That her limit long was o'er
The lady with the paper