“Higher and higher rose his voice, Till it was like to stun――” The one of three, loud groanèd he―― He knew his chop was done. The one of three, loud groanèd he, Yet could not choose but hear, For he had dined, and eke had wined, With the ancient dowager. “It seemed at last (three acts were past) As though his tongue was dry; I never heard a single word, Though his voice was pitched so high. “But higher yet his voice did get, His movements quicker still―― Now Heaven send, said I to a friend, He be not taken ill! “O sleep, it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole, His monotone no longer mocks, For slumber flies down to my box, And slides into my soul. “I dream’t that, wearied with his task, The actor, feeling bad, Had ceased to act, it was a fact, For, when I woke he had! “The curtain dropt, but few had stopt, And I was one of these; A girl did come, who lookèd glum, And said, ‘it’s over please.’ “‘Thanks girl,’ said I, and checked a sigh, The news thou bring’st is sweet; ‘’Tis o’er you said’? She wagged her head, And showed me to the street. “Farewell, farewell, but this I tell To thee, thou one of three, He doeth well who reads ‘Othell- O’[83] in his librarie.” The dowager drew up the glass, The interview was o’er, And hungrilie, the one of three, Doth slam the brougham-door He went like one that had been done, For his chop was cold, he knew; And, a sadder and a wiser man, He ordered Irish stew. _The Figaro._ February 23, 1876. ―――― THE ANCIENT MARINER. _The Wedding Guest’s Version of the Affair from his Point of View._ It is an Ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three―― In fact he coolly took my arm―― “There was a ship,” quoth he. “Bother your ships!” said I. “Is this The time a yarn to spin? This is a wedding, don’t you see, And I am next of kin. “The wedding-breakfast has begun, We’re hungry as can be―― Hold off! Unhand me, longshore man!” With that his hand dropt he. But there was something in his eye That made me sick and ill, Yet forced to listen to his yarn―― The Mariner’d had his swill. While Tom and Harry went their way I sat upon a stone―― So queer on Fanny’s wedding-day Me sitting there alone! Then he began, that Mariner, To rove from pole to pole, In one long-winded, lengthened-out, Eternal rigmarole, About a ship in which he’d sailed, Though whither, goodness knows, Where “ice will split with a thunder-fit,” And every day it snows. And then about a precious bird Of some sort or another, That――was such nonsence ever heard?―― Used to control the weather! Now, at this bird the Mariner Resolved to have a shy, And laid it low with his cross-bow―― And then the larks! My eye!