Lights of learning all have told us We can shunt the gloomy pall, And, when churchyards will not hold us, Roast our flesh for funeral. Let us, then, keep time with culture: “Earth to earth” is out of date―― Leave no carrion for the vulture, Spurn the sexton, and cremate. _Moonshine_, May 17, 1884. ―――――――― ON READING A LIFE AND LETTERS. “Lives” of great men all remind us Friends may after our last breath Publish what we leave behind us, Adding thus new fears to death. Wives of rich men oft remind us, We may make our wives sublime; But ten pounds for a lady’s bonnet Knocks a cheque-book out of time. [Illustration] “THE DAY IS DONE.” The day is done, and darkness From the wing of night is loosed, As a feather, is wafted downward, From a chicken going to roost. I see the lights of the baker Gleam through the rain and mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o’er me, That I cannot well resist. A feeling of sadness and longing That is not like being sick, And resembles sorrow only As a brickbat resembles a brick. Come, get for me some supper―― A good and regular meal―― That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the pain I feel. Not from the pastry bakers, Not from the shops for cake; I wouldn’t give a farthing For all that they can make. For, like the soup at dinner, Such things would but suggest Some dishes more substantial, And to-night I want the best. Go to some honest butcher, Whose beef is fresh and nice, As any they have in the city, And get a liberal slice. Such things through days of labour, And nights devoid of ease. For sad and desperate feelings, Are wonderful remedies. They have an astonishing power To aid and reinforce, And come like the “finally, brethren,” That follows a long discourse. Then get me a tender sirloin From off the bench or hook. And lend to its sterling goodness The science of the cook. And the night shall be filled with comfort, And the cares with which it begun Shall fold up their blankets like Indians, And silently cut and run. _Poems and Parodies._ By Phœbe Carey, Boston, United States, 1854. [Illustration] The three parodies following are imitations of Longfellow’s THE ARROW AND THE SONG. I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in his flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterwards, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. ――――――――