Dream brought you to my bed —
Ah, dream may dare!
Dream laid my hands about your head —
It was a strangeness to find you there,
To find your lips so near. . . .

Will you not give me my bliss,
Will you not stay?
Half-met, half-felt — O lost kiss,
O lips drifting away! —
Almost, almost within my arms you lay!

Hold! — 'Tis too much for thought! decide no more:
But, in safe silence , awefully adore .
Lost, in th' immense abyss, man can but see,
That he, who knows God, right, must, first, be HE .

A child of the Republic,
I have never bowed the knee
To coronets or sceptres,
To rank or royalty:

But when a royal nature,
Crowned with a royal name,
Devotes to holy freedom
His genius and his fame,
O, then my soul forgets her pride,
Then to the winds I fling
My democratic scruples,
And all that sort of thing;
My spirit yields allegiance,
And prays, God save thee, King!

" Gentlemen," said Burns,
" Before the meeting adjourns
I think the least we can do
Is to declare that we are nae fou."

A plague of those musty old lubbers,
Who tell us to fast and to think,
And patient fail in with life's rubbers,
With nothing but water to drink.

A can of good stuff! had they twigg'd it,
'Twould have set them for pleasure agog,
And, spight of the rules
Of the schools,
The old fools
Would have all of 'em swigg'd it,

Sir Edward Burne-Jones
Was usually Mistah Bones
And imitated a German taking soup
In the Pre-Raphaelite Minstrel Troupe.

I do not extenuate Bunyan's
Intemperate use of onions,
But if I knew a wicked ogress
I would lend her The Pilgrim's Progress .

The lady knew that she was snubbed, and instant left the court,
And with her Baedeker in hand she found the nearest port.
O captain bold,—the lady said,—sail quick to Afric's sand,
And I will live where Evan Smith and lions paw the sand.
With a lion's whelp for her Lady-Help she led a happy life,
And thanked the stars and the planet Mars, she was not De Lorge's wife.

The whelp grew big until he was of full Van-Amburg size,
And any showman in the world would say he was a prize.
One day he trod on a rusty thorn, and drove it in so hard

When Macaulay found Brougham
Sitting on a tomb,
He told his anxious friend
He was meditating on his latter end.

It only irritated Brahms
To tickle him under the arms.
What really helped him to compose
Was to be stroked on the nose.