“O, ancient man! I am filled with fear, My lover has left me full a year. ‘I swear to return in a year,’ said he, ‘Or question the man of mystery. Your eyes are blue, and your lips are red; I swear, my love, to come back,’ he said. O, fearsome man! I pray of you, Can he prove so false whom I think so true?” “O, daughter fair! I am sad to say That young men now and then betray: Thy lover, I wis, has thy trust betray’d, For he presently woos a witching maid: Her eyes are blue, and, I tell thee this, She has tempting lips that he fain would kiss; But courage, my child, thou mayst yet discover A clue to the heart of this worthless lover.” He mutter’d, when thus he the maid had cheer’d, A strange sound that was drown’d in the forky beard; Then all around loud thunders broke, And the cave was wrapp’d in fire and smoke, And that fearsome man has disappear’d With his flaming eyes and his forky beard; And Edith weeps in rapture sweet To find her lover at her feet! A GLIMPSE OF GRETNA GREEN, IN THE DISTANCE “My Kate, at the Waterloo column, To-morrow, precisely at eight; Remember, thy promise was solemn, And—thine till to-morrow, my Kate!” * * * * * That evening seem’d strangely to linger, The licence and luggage were packt, And Time, with a long and short finger, Approvingly mark’d me exact. Arrived, woman’s constancy blessing, No end of nice people I see, Some hither, some thitherwards pressing, But none of them waiting for me. Time passes, my watch how I con it, I see her—she’s coming—no, stuff! Instead of Kate’s smart little bonnet, It is aunt and her wonderful muff! (Yes! Fortune deserves to be chidden, It is a coincidence queer, Whenever one wants to be hidden, One’s relatives always appear.) Near nine! how the passers despise me, They smile at my anguish, I think; And even the sentinel eyes me, And tips that policeman the wink. Ah! Kate made me promises solemn, At eight she had vow’d to be mine; While waiting for one at this column, I find I’ve been waiting for nine. O Fame! on thy pillar so steady, Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain: How many have done it already! How many will do it again! THE FOUR SEASONS Two wayward imps, all smiles or tears, With large round eyes of ceaseless wonder, Small pitchers with extensive ears, And fingers prone to urchin plunder. Two whisp’ring lovers—blissful pair! Is _he_ the rogue? or hath she trick’d him? Unless he dupes his mistress there, The chances are, he’ll fall a victim. Two toiling ones of sober age (Their bet with Care a losing wager); They own, though now so very sage, They might have been a trifle sager!