And I watched in the lamplight's swerving The shade of the down-dropt lid, And the lip-line's delicate curving, Where a slumbering smile lay hid, Till I longed that, rather than sever, The train should shriek into space, And carry us onward--for ever,-- Me and that beautiful face. But she suddenly woke in a fidget, With fears she was "nearly at home," And talk of a certain Aunt Bridget, Whom I mentally wished--well, at Rome; Got out at the very next station, Looking back with a merry _Bon Soir_, Adding, too, to my utter vexation, A surplus, unkind _Au Revoir_. So left me to muse on her graces, To dose and to muse, till I dreamed That we sailed through the sunniest places In a glorified galley, it seemed; But the cabin was made of a carriage, And the ocean was Eau-de-Cologne, And we split on a rock labelled MARRIAGE, And I woke,--as cold as a stone. And that's how I lost her--a jewel, _Incognita_--one in a crowd, Nor prudent enough to be cruel, Nor worldly enough to be proud. It was just a shut lid and its lashes, Just a few hours in a train, And I sorrow in sackcloth and ashes Longing to see her again. DORA VERSUS ROSE. "_The Case is proceeding._" From the tragic-est novels at Mudie's-- At least, on a practical plan-- To the tales of mere Hodges and Judys, One love is enough for a man. But no case that I ever yet met is Like mine: I am equally fond Of Rose, who a charming brunette is, And Dora, a blonde. Each rivals the other in powers-- Each waltzes, each warbles, each paints-- Miss Rose, chiefly tumble-down towers; Miss Do., perpendicular saints. In short, to distinguish is folly; 'Twixt the pair I am come to the pass Of Macheath, between Lucy and Polly,-- Or Buridan's ass. If it happens that Rosa I've singled For a soft celebration in rhyme, Then the ringlets of Dora get mingled Somehow with the tune and the time; Or I painfully pen me a sonnet To an eyebrow intended for Do.'s, And behold I am writing upon it The legend "To Rose." Or I try to draw Dora (my blotter Is all overscrawled with her head), If I fancy at last that I've got her, It turns to her rival instead; Or I find myself placidly adding To the rapturous tresses of Rose Miss Dora's bud-mouth, and her madding, Ineffable nose. Was there ever so sad a dilemma? For Rose I would perish (_pro tem._); For Dora I'd willingly stem a-- (Whatever might offer to stem); But to make the invidious election,-- To declare that on either one's side I've a scruple,--a grain, more affection, I _cannot_ decide.