A gray-beard joined them, Time by name; And Love was nearly crazy, To find that he was very lame, And also very lazy: Hope, as he listened to her tale, Tied wings upon his jacket; And then they far outran the mail, And far outsailed the packet. And so, when they had safely passed O'er many a land and billow, Before a grave they stopped at last, Beneath a weeping willow: The moon upon the humble mound Her softest light was flinging; Sad nightingales were singing. "I leave you here," quoth Father Time, As hoarse as any raven; And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme Upon the rude stone graven: But Hope looked onward, calmly brave; And whispered, "Dearest brother, We're parted on this side the grave,-- We'll meet upon the other." * * * * * PRIVATE THEATRICALS. LADY ARABELLA FUSTIAN TO LORD CLARENCE FUSTIAN. --Sweet, when Actors first appear The loud collision of applauding gloves! MOULTRIE. Your labors, my talented brother, Are happily over at last; They tell me that, some how or other, The bill is rejected,--or past: And now you'll be coming, I'm certain, As fast as four posters can crawl, To help us draw up our curtain, As usual, at Fustian Hall. Arrangements, are nearly completed; But still we've a lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated, We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces,-- Lord John is a trifle too tall,-- And yours are the safest embraces To faint in, at Fustian Hall. Come, Clarence;--it's really enchanting To listen and look at the rout; We're all of us puffing, and panting, And raving, and running about; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle; There Andrew and Anthony bawl; Flutes murmur, chains rattle, robes rustle, In chorus, at Fustian Hall. By the bye, there are two or three matters We want you to bring us from town; The Inca's white plumes from the hatter's, A nose and a hump for the Clown: We want a few harps for our banquet, We want a few masks for our ball; And steal from your wise friend Bosanquet His white wig, for Fustian Hall. Huncamunca must have a huge saber, Friar Tuck has forgotten his cowl; And we're quite at a stand-still with Weber, For want of a lizard and owl: And then, for our funeral procession, Pray get us a love of a pall; Or how shall we make an impression On feelings, at Fustian Hall? And, Clarence, you'll really delight us, If you'll do your endeavor to bring From the Club a young person to write us Our prologue, and that sort of thing; Poor Crotchet, who did them supremely, Is gone, for a Judge, to Bengal; I fear we shall miss him extremely, This season, at Fustian Hall.