With high-pitched tones in broken English she Waved bystanders aside, and sold her wares Only to scions of nobility, With all her choicest airs. And passing on, not caring to pay dear For portraits which in all shop-windows are, I saw our novel Helen standing near, Far-gleaming like a star. Softly she spake: 'I would that from my stall Some favour you would buy, that I may gain Tenfold in praise, and beat my rivals all In making fools of men.' Outleapt my answer: 'Try me with thy wile: A crown for that sweet rose!' With polished ease She shook from haughty eyes a languid smile: 'Not so; a guinea, please.' Lighter my purse, as onward, pacing slow, I turned from right to left in idle quest, Till on me flashed, fair as the sunset glow, Mrs. Cornwallis West. Strangely my eyes their wonted functions changed; I saw her once again, white-veiled, white-furred, As oft by deft photographers arranged, A photographic bird Prest to her lips 'mid counterfeited snow. Full soon the fancy ceased. I heard a cry Peal from the lips that men have worshipped so: 'Pass quickly on, or buy!' A labyrinth of beauty, sweet to see! The proud Guinness, the noted Wheeler--all Our much-belauded London galaxy, Protecting each a stall. Sweet forms, fair faces, everywhere the same; And many a withered flower and trinket old I purchased recklessly, till joy became A solemn scorn of gold. The slow day faded in the evening sky Ere all my petty cash was squandered free. One joy remained. I bade my hansom fly To visit Connie G. TERRÆ FILIUS. Those who have read _Locksley Hall_ will greatly appreciate _The Lay of the Lovelorn_, a parody contained in the Bon Gaultier Ballads of Theodore Martin and Professor Aytoun. Tennyson's original poem commences thus:-- Comrades leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn; Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old the curlews' call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall; Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time. * * * * * Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow hearted! O my Amy, mine no more, O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore!