For Gerry's debonair, And innocent, and fair As a rose: She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose. Those simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. Cinderella's _lefts and rights_ To Geraldine's were frights: And, in truth, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod From her youth. The mansion--ay, and more, The cottage of the poor, Where there's grief, Or sickness, are her choice-- And the music of her voice Brings relief. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss-in-Boots These to don, Set your little hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on. ALBURY, _June 29, 1864_. THE ROSE AND THE RING. (Christmas 1854, and Christmas 1863.) She smiles--but her heart is in sable, And sad as her Christmas is chill: She reads, and her book is the fable He penned for her while she was ill. It is nine years ago since he wrought it Where reedy old Tiber is king, And chapter by chapter he brought it-- And read her the Rose and the Ring. And when it was printed, and gaining Renown with all lovers of glee, He sent her this copy containing His comical little _croquis_; A sketch of a rather droll couple-- She's pretty--he's quite t'other thing! He begs (with a spine vastly supple) She will study the Rose and the Ring. It pleased the kind Wizard to send her The last and the best of his toys, His heart had a sentiment tender For innocent women and boys: And though he was great as a scorner, The guileless were safe from his sting,-- How sad is past mirth to the mourner!-- A tear on the Rose and the Ring! She reads--I may vainly endeavour Her mirth-chequered grief to pursue; For she hears she has lost--and for ever-- A Heart that was known by so few; But I wish on the shrine of his glory One fair little blossom to fling; And you see there's a nice little story Attached to the Rose and the Ring! TO MY OLD FRIEND POSTUMUS. (J. G.) My Friend, our few remaining years Are hasting to an end, They glide away, and lines are here That time will never mend; Thy blameless life avails thee not,-- Alas, my dear old Friend! From mother Earth's green orchard trees The fairest fruit is blown, The lad was gay who slumbers near, The lass he loved is gone; Death lifts the burthen from the poor, And will not spare the throne. And vainly are we fenced about From peril, day and night, The awful rapids must be shot, Our shallop is but slight; So pray, when parting, we descry A cheering beacon-light.