O, thou profound, eternal blue,
God's mystic arch of heaven-land!
Art thou not veiling spirit hue,
And hiding the angelic band?
Jehovah! so move this veil,
That we may see the throne of light,
From which St. Gabriel brought the " Hail "
To Mary, on that Holy night!

We've slumbered much in darkness here,
And now we seek more light from Thee:
We feel that peace is reigning there —
Beyond the clouds, o'er land and sea.
The mystery of eternal life
Provokes the soul's sad tedium;
We faint beneath this mortal strife,

Condemn not, rashly, all that looks, like ill,
Lest you are forc'd to drink the cup, you fill .
As you sow judgment, you shall reap it, too;
And, as you measure, God will measure you .
Why, with such nice discernment, dost thou spy,
The growing mote , that clouds thy brother's eye?
Why is such zeal , to cure his blemish , shown,
When beams , instead of motes , have fill'd thy own .
Thou hypocrite! first, thy own blemish cure,
And, then, the needful help, for his , procure?

If, still, more plain instruction you require,

The night was stormy; yet the clang
Of hammers through the darkness rang,
And on the rampart's vapoury swamp
High swung one faint and fitful lamp,
And came upon the gusty swell
The challenge of the sentinel;
As if some deed were doing there
Unfit for man to see or hear.

Morn rose on twilight, dim and slow;
By Manheim's gates were signs of woe —
A scaffold hung with black, a chair,
A sable bench, — a sabre bare,
Show'd, that before the setting sun
Some wretch's chain should be undone.

When first she fell in love with Frank,
'Twas not the latter's youth and rank,
Nor yet his balance at the bank
That won the heart of Elsie;
'Twas not the whiteness of his soul
That made her lose all self-control,
But 'twas the way he kicked a goal,
When playing " back " for Chelsea.
'Twas this inspired the girl's affection,
And turned her thoughts in Frank's direction.

But when, at Lord's, with bitter sobs,
She saw her sweetheart score two blobs,
Defeated by the googly lobs

A Ballad for the Boudoir

When the waters of the Douro
Flow up-country from the sea;
When these trucks go East of Truro,
Then my heart will faithless be!
Sparkling like some rich liqueur, oh!
Tender, delicate and pure, oh!
As Bellini's chiaroscuro ,
Is the love that kindles me!
When these trucks go East of Truro,
Then will I be false to thee!

Though the clerk forget his bureau,
I will not forgetful be!

The bride grows pale beneath her veil,
The matron, for the nonce, is dumb,
Who listens to the tragic tale
Of Mrs Christopher Columb;
Who lived and died (so says report)
A widow of the herbal sort.

Her husband upon canvas wings
Would brave the ocean, tempest-tost,
He had a culte for finding things
Which nobody had ever lost,
And Mrs C. grew almost frantic
When he discovered the Atlantic.

But nothing she could do or say
Would keep her Christopher at home.
Without delay he sailed away,

I.

Another bend among the hills,
One other bend, and we shall hear
Among the green o'erhanging trees
The rocky Wirbel boiling near.

II.

Upon the Danube and the woods
Lay evening's red and troubled gleam,
And calmly, as a lifeless thing,
The raft from Linz went down the stream.

III.

And then how softly rose the hymn
For Mary's succour in the strait,
And that good Angels in the pool
To steer the little craft might wait.

IV.

It bent and strained, and in the foam

From the earliest days,
Ev'ry writer of lays
Has delighted to sing about Passion;
But of rhymes there's a dearth
For the Briton by birth
Who would follow this popular fashion.
For though Love is a theme
That we poets esteem
As unrivalled, immortal, sublime too,
'Tis a word that the bard
Finds it daily more hard
To discover a suitable rhyme to!
For one can't always mention the " stars up above, "

Though husbands bright and brainy
May have their use, one knows,
Give me an honest zany
As partner of my woes!
How blest indeed is woman's fate
Who takes a noodle as her mate!

The clever husband quarrels,
Or grumbles at his food;
The wit's ideas of morals
Are lamentably crude;
A partner with a feeble mind
Is neither vicious nor unkind.

'Tis commonly admitted,
And ev'ry one allows,
That if a man's half-witted
He makes a perfect spouse;
And more resigned, each day, I feel
To marriage with an imbecile!

I.

Seven times doth Asia's flowery coast give place
To Europe's shrubby cliffs and verdant Thrace;
And Europe into seven sweet bays retires
Where summer sunrise shoots his pearly fires;
There holy East and royal West are meeting,
Each from the other's headlands still retreating.
With currents and with counter-currents seven
The cold, bright waters, blue as bluest Heaven,
Seem like the beating pulses of the free
And angry spirit of the Euxine Sea.

II.

Lift up the veil of legendary gloom