"You can keep your pearls and your gold earring, And your bird of the East that will not sing, But, Ned, have you nothing more for me Than heathenish gew-gaw toys?" says she, "Have you nothing better for Nancy?" THE WELL-DRESSED CHILDREN. Here's flowery taffeta for Mary's new gown: Here's black velvet, all the rage, for Dick's birthday coat. Pearly buttons for you, Mary, all the way down, Lace ruffles, Dick, for you; you'll be a man of note. Mary, here I've bought you a green gingham shade And a silk purse brocaded with roses gold and blue, You'll learn to hold them proudly like colours on parade. No banker's wife in all the town half so grand as you. I've bought for young Diccon a long walking-stick, Yellow gloves, well tanned, at Woodstock village made. I'll teach you to flourish 'em and show your name is DICK, Strutting by your sister's side with the same parade. On Sunday to church you go, each with a book of prayer: Then up the street and down the aisles, everywhere you'll see Of all the honours paid around, how small is Virtue's share. How large the share of Vulgar Pride in peacock finery. THUNDER AT NIGHT. Restless and hot two children lay Plagued with uneasy dreams, Each wandered lonely through false day A twilight torn with screams. True to the bed-time story, Ben Pursued his wounded bear, Ann dreamed of chattering monkey men, Of snakes twined in her hair... Now high aloft above the town The thick clouds gather and break, A flash, a roar, and rain drives down: Aghast the young things wake. Trembling for what their terror was, Surprised by instant doom, With lightning in the looking glass, Thunder that rocks the room. The monkeys' paws patter again, Snakes hiss and flash their eyes: The bear roars out in hideous pain: Ann prays: her brother cries. They cannot guess, could not be told How soon comes careless day, With birds and dandelion gold, Wet grass, cool scents of May. TO E.M.--A BALLAD OF NURSERY RHYME. Strawberries that in gardens grow Are plump and juicy fine, But sweeter far as wise men know Spring from the woodland vine. No need for bowl or silver spoon, Sugar or spice or cream, Has the wild berry plucked in June Beside the trickling stream. One such to melt at the tongue's root, Confounding taste with scent, Beats a full peck of garden fruit: Which points my argument. May sudden justice overtake And snap the froward pen, That old and palsied poets shake Against the minds of men. Blasphemers trusting to hold caught In far-flung webs of ink, The utmost ends of human thought Till nothing's left to think.