We hug the phantom we detest, We rarely let it cross our portals: It is a most exacting guest,-- Now are we not afflicted mortals? Your neighbour Gay, that joyous wight, As Dives rich, and bold as Hector, Poor Gay steals twenty times a-night, On shaking knees, to see his spectre. Old Dives fears a pauper fate, And hoarding is his thriving passion; Some piteous souls anticipate A waistcoat straiter than the fashion. She, childless, pines,--that lonely wife, And hidden tears are bitter shedding; And he may tremble all his life, And die,--but not of that he's dreading. Ah me, the World! how fast it spins! The beldams shriek, the caldron bubbles; They dance, and stir it for our sins, And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan,--the cry for love Mounts upward from this seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER, infinite in pity. When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, When sunbeams play, when shadows darken, One inmate of our dwelling keeps A ghastly carnival--but hearken! How dry the rattle of those bones!-- The sound was not to make you start meant,-- Stand by! Your humble servant owns The Tenant of this Dark Apartment. THE VICTORIA CROSS. A LEGEND OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS. She gave him a draught freshly drawn from the springlet,-- O Tunbridge, thy waters are bitter, alas! But Love finds an ambush in dimple and ringlet,-- "Thy health, pretty maiden!"--he emptied the glass. He saw, and he loved her, nor cared he to quit her, The oftener he came, why the longer he stayed; Indeed, though the spring was exceedingly bitter, We found him eternally pledging the maid. A _preux chevalier_, and but lately a cripple, He met with his hurt where a regiment fell, But worse was he wounded when staying to tipple A bumper to "Phoebe, the Nymph of the Well." Some swore he was old, that his laurels were faded, All vowed she was vastly too nice for a nurse; But Love never looked on such matters as they did,-- She took the brave soldier for better or worse. And here is the home of her fondest election,-- The walls may be worn but the ivy is green; And here has she tenderly twined her affection Around a true soldier who bled for his Queen. See, yonder he sits, where the church flings its shadows; What child is that spelling the epitaphs there? To that imp its devout and devoted old dad owes New zest in thanksgiving--fresh fervour in prayer. Ere long, ay, too soon, a sad concourse will darken The doors of that church, and that tranquil abode; His place then no longer will know him--but, hearken, The widow and orphan appeal to their God.