I fled before this artful ruse To cook my too-confiding goose, And now I sweep, in chill despair, This crossing in St. James's Square; Some old _Qui-hy_, some rural flat May drop a sixpence in my hat; Yet still I mourn the mango-tree Where Azla first grew fond of me. These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny, Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee; What matters it if theirs are snowy, As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe! Your town is vile. In Thames's stream The crocodiles get up the steam! Your juggernauts their victims bump From Camberwell to Aldgate pump! A year ago, come Candlemas, I wooed a plump Feringhee lass; United at her idol fane, I furnished rooms in Idol Lane. A moon had waned when virtuous Emma Involved me in a new dilemma: The Brahma faith that Emma scorns Impaled me tight on both its horns: _She vowed to die if she survived me_; Of this sweet fancy she deprived me, She ran from all her obligations, And went to stay with her relations. My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps, But Emma mocks my trials,-- She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks, At me in Seven Dials,-- She'd see me farther still, than be, Though Veeshnu wills it--my _Suttee_! A SONG THAT WAS NEVER SUNG. Thou sayest our friends are only dead To idle mirth and sorrow, Regretful tears for what is fled, And yearnings for to-morrow. Alas, that love should know alloy-- How frail the cup that holds our joy! Thou sighest, "How sweet it were to rove Those paths of asphodel; Where all we prize, and all who love, Rejoice!" Ah, who can tell? Yet sweet it were, knit hand in hand, To lead thee through a better land. Why wish the fleeting years to stay?-- When time for us is flown, There is this garden,--far away, An Eden all our own: And there I'll whisper in thine ear --Ah! what I may not tell thee here! MR. PLACID'S FLIRTATION. "Jemima was cross, and I lost my umbrella That day at the tomb of Cecilia Metella." _Letters from Rome._ Miss Tristram's _poulet_ ended thus: "Nota bene, We meet for croquet in the Aldobrandini." Says my wife, "Then I'll drive, and you'll ride with Selina," (The fair spouse of Jones, of the Via Sistina). We started--I'll own that my family deem That I'm soft--but I'm not quite so soft as I seem; As we crossed the stones gently the nursemaids said "La! There goes Mrs. Jones with Miss Placid's papa." Our friends, some of whom may be mentioned anon, Had made _rendezvous_ at the Gate of St. John: That passed, off we spun over turf that's not green there, And soon were all met at the villa--you've been there?