You tried the _cul-de-sac_ of Thought; The _montagne Russe_ of Pleasure; You found the best Ambition brought Was strangely short of measure; You watched, at last, the fleet days fly, Till--drowsier and colder-- You felt MERCURIUS loitering by To touch you on the shoulder. 'Twas then (why not?) the whim would come That howso Time should garble Those deeds of yours when you were dumb, At least you'd live--in Marble; You smiled to think that after days, At least, in Bust or Statue, (We all have sick-bed dreams!) would gaze, Not quite incurious, at you. _We_ gaze; _we_ pity you, be sure! In truth, Death's worst inaction Must be less tedious to endure Than nameless petrifaction; Far better, in some nook unknown, To sleep for once--and soundly, Than still survive in wistful stone, Forgotten more profoundly! MOLLY TREFUSIS. _"Now the Graces are four and the Venuses two,_ _And ten is the number of Muses;_ _For a Muse and a Grace and a Venus are you,--_ _My dear little Molly Trefusis!"_ So he wrote, the old bard of an "old magazine:" As a study it not without use is, If we wonder a moment who she may have been, This same "little Molly Trefusis!" She was Cornish. We know that at once by the "Tre;" Then of guessing it scarce an abuse is If we say that where Bude bellows back to the sea Was the birthplace of Molly Trefusis. And she lived in the era of patches and bows, Not knowing what rouge or ceruse is; For they needed (I trust) but her natural rose, The lilies of Molly Trefusis. And I somehow connect her (I frankly admit That the evidence hard to produce is) With BATH in its hey-day of Fashion and Wit,-- This dangerous Molly Trefusis. I fancy her, radiant in ribbon and knot, (How charming that old-fashioned puce is!) All blooming in laces, fal-lals and what not, At the PUMP ROOM,--Miss Molly Trefusis. I fancy her reigning,--a Beauty,--a Toast, Where BLADUD'S medicinal cruse is; And we know that at least of one Bard it could boast,-- The Court of Queen Molly Trefusis. He says she was "VENUS." I doubt it. Beside, (Your rhymer so hopelessly loose is!) His "little" could scarce be to Venus applied, If fitly to Molly Trefusis. No, no. It was HEBE he had in his mind; And fresh as the handmaid of Zeus is, And rosy, and rounded, and dimpled,--you'll find,-- Was certainly Molly Trefusis! Then he calls her "a MUSE." To the charge I reply That we all of us know what a Muse is; It is something too awful,--too acid,--too dry,-- For sunny-eyed Molly Trefusis.