Dash’d the bold fork through pies of pork; O’er hard-boil’d eggs the saltspoon shook; Leapt from its lair the playful cork: Yet some there were, to whom the brook Seem’d sweetest beverage, and for meat They chose the red root of the beet. Then many a song, some rather long, Came quivering up from girlish throats; And one young man he came out strong, And gave “The Wolf” without his notes. While they who knew not song or ballad Still munch’d, approvingly, their salad. But ah! what bard could sing how hard, The artless banquet o’er, they ran Down the soft slope with daisies starr’d And kingcups! onward, maid with man, They flew, to scale the breezy swing, Or court frank kisses in the ring. Such are the sylvan scenes that thrill This heart! The lawns, the happy shade, Where matrons, whom the sunbeams grill, Stir with slow spoon their lemonade; And maidens flirt (no extra charge) In comfort at the fountain’s marge! Others may praise the “grand displays” Where “fiery arch,” “cascade,” and “comet,” Set the whole garden in a “blaze”! Far, at such times, may I be from it; Though then the public may be “lost In wonder” at a trifling cost. Fann’d by the breeze, to puff at ease My faithful pipe is all I crave: And if folks rave about the “trees Lit up by fireworks,” let them rave. Your monster fêtes, I like not these; Though they bring grist to the lessees. PEACE. A STUDY. HE stood, a worn-out City clerk— Who’d toil’d, and seen no holiday, For forty years from dawn to dark— Alone beside Caermarthen Bay. He felt the salt spray on his lips; Heard children’s voices on the sands; Up the sun’s path he saw the ships Sail on and on to other lands; And laugh’d aloud. Each sight and sound To him was joy too deep for tears; He sat him on the beach, and bound A blue bandana round his ears: And thought how, posted near his door, His own green door on Camden Hill, Two bands at least, most likely more, Were mingling at their own sweet will Verdi with Vance. And at the thought He laugh’d again, and softly drew That Morning Herald that he’d bought Forth from his breast, and read it through. THE ARAB. ON, on, my brown Arab, away, away! Thou hast trotted o’er many a mile to-day, And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, To tread with those echoless unshod feet Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, Where no palmtree proffers a kindly shade And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough Oh! it goes to my heart—but away, friend, off!