Left me, with Time for Mentor, (A dreary _tete-a-tete_!) To pen my "Last Lament," or Extemporize to Fate, In blankest verse disclosing My bitterness of mind,-- Which is, I learn, composing In cases of the kind. No, Rose. Though you refuse me, Culture the pang prevents; "I am not made"--excuse me-- "Of so slight elements;" I leave to common lovers The hemlock or the hood; My rarer soul recovers In dreams of public good. The Roses of this nation-- Or so I understand From careful computation-- Exceed the gross demand; And, therefore, in civility To maids that can't be matched, No man of sensibility Should linger unattached. So, without further fashion-- A modern Curtius, Plunging, from pure compassion, To aid the overplus,-- I sit down, sad--not daunted, And, in my weeds, begin A new card--"Tenant Wanted; Particulars within." OUTWARD BOUND. (HORACE, III. 7.) "_Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi Primo restituent vere Favonii-- Gygen?_" Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring Your absent Arthur back shall bring, Enriched with many an Indian thing Once more to woo you; Him neither wind nor wave can check, Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck, Still constant, though with stiffened neck, Makes verses to you. Would it were wave and wind alone! The terrors of the torrid zone, The indiscriminate cyclone, A man might parry; But only faith, or "triple brass," Can help the "outward-bound" to pass Safe through that eastward-faring class Who sail to marry. For him fond mothers, stout and fair, Ascend the tortuous cabin stair Only to hold around his chair Insidious sessions; For him the eyes of daughters droop Across the plate of handed soup, Suggesting seats upon the poop, And soft confessions. Nor are these all his pains, nor most. Romancing captains cease to boast-- Loud majors leave their whist--to roast The youthful griffin; All, all with pleased persistence show His fate,--"remote, unfriended, slow,"-- His "melancholy" bungalow,-- His lonely tiffin. In vain. Let doubts assail the weak; Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak," Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak Of woes that wait him; Naught can subdue his soul secure; "Arthur will come again," be sure, Though matron shrewd and maid mature Conspire to mate him. But, Laura, on your side, forbear To greet with too impressed an air A certain youth with chestnut hair,-- A youth unstable; Albeit none more skilled can guide The frail canoe on Thamis tide, Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide Through "Guards" or "Mabel."