She wore a wreath of roses that night when first we met, Her lovely face was smiling beneath her curls of jet; Her footsteps had the lightness, her voice the joyous tone, The tokens of a youthful heart where sorrow is unknown. I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of summer flowers upon her snowy brow. A wreath of orange flowers when next we met she wore, The expression of her features was more thoughtful than before, And standing by her side, was one, who strove, and not in vain, To soothe her leaving that dear home she ne’er might view again. I saw her but a moment, yet methinks I see her now, With a wreath of orange blossoms upon her snowy brow. And once again I saw that brow, no bridal wreath was there, The widow’s sombre cap concealed her once luxuriant hair; She weeps in silent solitude, for there is no one near, To press her hand within his own, and wipe away the tear! I see her broken-hearted, and methinks I see her now, In the pride of youth and beauty, with a wreath upon her brow. THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY. ―――― THE BANDIT’S FATE. He wore a brace of pistols the night that first we met, His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet; His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone, Of a bandit-chief who feels remorse and tears his hair alone. I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow. A private bandit’s belt and boots, when next we met he wore, His salary, he told me, was lower than before; And standing at the O.P. wing he strove, and not in vain, To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid again. I saw it but a moment――and I wish I saw it now―― As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow. And once again we met; but no bandit-chief was there; His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair: He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near, He cannot liquidate his “chalk,” or wipe away his beer. I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now, In the tableau of the last act with the blood upon his brow. _Punch_, November 11, 1843. ―――― HE DINED AT BERTHOLINI’S. He dined at Bertholini’s, the day when first we met, A pint of single stout was on the board before him set; His dinner had the lightness――his voice the humble tone Of one to whom a shilling was not intimately known; I saw him but a moment, but I think I see him now, In that hat of time-worn gossamer that drooped upon his brow.