For them no more the blazing fire grate burns, Or busy housewife fries her savory soles, Though children run to clasp their sires’ red urns, And roll them in a family game of bowls. Perhaps in this deserted spot is laid, Some heart once pregnant with terrestrial fire, Hands that the rod paternal may have swayed, And waked to ecstasy the living liar. From _Scribner’s Monthly_. July, 1875. ――――:o:―――― LAMENT OF THE EMINENT ONE. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The city clerk from daily toil is free, Play-goers t’wards the Strand now wend their way, And throng the theatre “Macbeth” to see. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Are seated round at this momentous hour, Waiting to hear the Thane of Cawdor rave. The curtain rises, and reveals to sight The scenes all have assembled to behold; But, long before the witching hour of night, The public are convinced they have been sold. Let not Ambition mock my fruitless toil, My stagey gasp and readings most obscure; I saw, alas! from their disdainful smile, The critics thought _Macbeth’s_ performance poor. (_Three verses omitted here._) Haply some hoary-headed scribe[21] may say: “Oft have I seen his ‘Hamlet’ and the ‘Bells.’ He is the greatest actor of the day, The idol of our most fastidious swells.” Thus does he seek my merits to disclose, And leaves my frailties to the world unknown; And thus I find things quite _couleur de rose_ Since the Lyceum marked me for its own. From _The Figaro_. October 6, 1875. ――――:o:―――― ELEGY. _Written in Rotten Row by a Disconsolate Swell._ The Park proclaims the season’s had its day, The “upper ten” are wending towards the sea; My friends are gone――such as could get away, And leave the town to emptiness and me. Now fades the glimmering landscape from the sight In picture galleries――solemn stillness holds Where lately Fashion kept its droning flight, And pull-back skirts extended lengthy folds. From Westminster’s electric-lighted tower, Still drowsy M. P.’s to the moon complain That dull debates outlast the midnight hour―― ’Tis ever so when ancient Tories reign. The applause of listening Senates to command Some late-elected Member vainly tries, Brings in his Bill, and faltering takes his stand, But reads his fate in every Member’s eyes. Full many a Bill with confidence serene Such Members to the House of Commons bear―― Full many a Bill thus brought them dies unseen In wasted talking on St. Stephen’s air. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife The few remaining Members crave to stray; And hints of cool, sequestered vales are rife. Or mountains, seas, and foreign cities gay.