Will it evermore be thus? Shall the past be lost to us Can the souls united here Never once again be near? Must we to the sentence bow “Strangers ever――Strangers now!” Thorns amid the roses press Earth is but a wilderness; Flitting o’er a fallen race Love can find no resting place. Where his flowers immortal grow Shall we strangers be as now? _Once a Week._ 1869. ――――:o:―――― “THE BEATING OF MY OWN WIFE.” (Air――“The beating of my own heart,” by Lord Houghton). I’d melted all my wages, Ere of beer I had my fill, For a bob I asked the Missus ――There’s a way where there’s a will. She refused, I took the poker, The neighbours never stirred, For the beating of my own wife Was the only sound they heard. A sneak blowed to the Crushers, I was lugged afore the Beak―― But I know’d that it was nothing: The old gal had her squeak: They fined me forty shillings, I paid it like a bird, And the beating of my own wife, Perhaps, that night was heard. But rights is rights no longer; CROSS swears he’ll eat his hat, Or jolly dogs, as wops their gals, Shall suffer from the Cat. If that brutal measure passes, Take WILLIAM SIKES, his word, That the beating of his own wife Will not again be heard. _Punch._ November 21, 1874. ―――― LOVE AND SCIENCE. [The Sphygmophon is an apparatus connected with the telephone, by the help of which the movements of the pulse and heart may be rendered audible.] I wandered by the brookside, I wandered by the mill; The Sphygmophon was fixed there, Its wires ran past the hill. I heeded not the grasshopper, Nor chirp of any bird, For the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. To test this apparatus, One end I closely press’d, The other, at a distance, I hoped was next his chest. I listened for his footfall, I listened for his word, Still the bumping of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not, no, he came not―― The night came on alone; And thinking he had tricked me, I loosed the Sphygmophon. The evening air passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirr’d, When――the thumping of his own heart Was all the sound I heard. With joy I grasped the magnet, When some one stood behind, His hand was on my shoulder (But that I did not mind). Each spoke then――nearer――nearer, We shouted every word; But the booming of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. _Funny Folks._ March 29, 1879. ――――