It stands in the stable-yard, under the eaves, Propped up by a broom-stick and covered with leaves: It once was the pride of the gay and the fair, But now 'tis a ruin,--that old Sedan chair! It is battered and tattered,--it little avails That once it was lacquered, and glistened with nails; For its leather is cracked into lozenge and square, Like a canvas by Wilkie,--that old Sedan chair! See,--here came the bearing-straps; here were the holes For the poles of the bearers--when once there were poles; It was cushioned with silk, it was wadded with hair, As the birds have discovered,--that old Sedan chair! "Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,--under the seat, Is a nest with four eggs,--'tis the favoured retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair! And yet--Can't you fancy a face in the frame Of the window,--some high-headed damsel or dame, Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair, While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair? Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair? Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague; Stout fellows!--but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair! It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade;" For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair, It has waited--and waited, that old Sedan chair! Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,-- Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!) Of Fete-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair! "_Heu! quantum mutata_," I say as I go. It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it,--"With Care,"-- To a Fine-Art Museum--that old Sedan chair! TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY. "_Kill not--for Pity's sake--and lest ye slay_ _The meanest thing upon its upward way._" Five Rules of Buddha. I watch you through the garden walks, I watch you float between The avenues of dahlia stalks, And flicker on the green; You hover round the garden seat, You mount, you waver. Why,-- Why storm us in our still retreat, O saffron Butterfly! Across the room in loops of flight I watch you wayward go; Dance down a shaft of glancing light, Review my books a-row; Before the bust you flaunt and flit Of "blind Maeonides"-- Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit Not butterflies, but bees!