Ye chrysolite crystalline creatures, Wan watchers the fairest afield, Stars, and garters, are these my own features In the merciless mirror revealed? They are mine, even mine and none other, And my hands how they slacken and strain! Oh my sister, my spouse, and my mother! I’m going insane! From _Miscellaneous Poems_, by J. BRUNTON STEPHENS. ―――― BRANDY AND SODA. Mine eyes to mine eyelids cling thickly; My tongue feels a mouthful and more; My senses are sluggish and sickly; To live and to breathe is a bore. My head weighs a ton and a quarter, By pains and by pangs ever split, Which manifold washings with water Relieve not a bit. My longings of thirst are unlawful, And vain to console or control, The aroma of coffee is awful, Repulsive the sight of the roll. I take my matutinal journal, And strive my dull wits to engage, But cannot endure the infernal Sharp crack of its page. What bad luck my soul had bedevilled, What demon of spleen and of spite, That I rashly went forth, and I revelled In riotous living last night? Had the fumes of the goblet no odour That well might repulse or restrain? O insidious brandy and soda, Our Lady of Pain. Thou art golden of gleam as the summer That smiled o’er a tropical sod, O daughter of Bacchus, the bummer, A foamer, a volatile tod! But thy froth is a serpent that hisses, And thy gold as a balefire doth shine, And the lovers who rise from thy kisses Can’t walk a straight line. I recall, with a flush and a flutter, That orgie whose end is unknown; Did they bear me to bed on a shutter, Or did I reel home all alone? Was I frequent in screams and in screeches? Did I swear with a forcéd affright? Did I perpetrate numerous speeches? Did I get in a fight? Of the secrets I treasure and prize most Did I empty my bacchanal breast? Did I button-hole men I despise most, And frown upon those I like best? Did I play the low farmer and flunkey With people I always ignore? Did I caricole round like a monkey? Did I sit on the floor? O longing no research may satiate―― No aim to exhume what is hid! For falsehood were vain to expatiate On deeds more depraved than I did; And though friendly faith I would flout not On this it were rash to rely, Since the friends who beheld me, I doubt not, Were drunker than I. Thou hast lured me to passionate pastime, Dread goddess, whose smile is a snare! Yet I swear thou hast tempted me the last time―― I swear it; I mean what I swear! And thy beaker shall always forebode a Disgust ’twere not wise to disdain, O luxurious brandy-and-soda; Our Lady of Pain. HUGH HOWARD. 1882. ―――― DOLORES.