But Mrs. O’Shaughnessy and her two children all died in 1879, and the unfortunate young poet did not long survive them, he dying in London early in 1881. His early books――“An Epic of Women” (1870); and “Lays of France” (1872), were successful, but “Music and Moonlight” (1874), was coldly received. BLUE MOONSHINE. _By O’pshawnessy._ Mingled aye with fragrant yearnings, Throbbing in the mellow glow, Glint the silvery spirit burnings, Pearly blandishments of woe. Ay! for ever and for ever, Whilst the love-lorn censers sweep, Whilst the jasper winds dissever, Amber-like, the crystal deep; Shall the soul’s delirious slumber, Sea-green vengeance of a kiss, Teach despairing crags to number Blue infinities of bliss. FRANCIS G. STOKES. This parody originally appeared in _The Shotover Papers_, Oxford, May 1874. ―――― “FRANGIPANNI.” _By O’Sh******sy._ Untwine those ringlets! Ev’ry dainty clasp That shines like twisted sunlight in my eye Is but the coiling of the jewelled asp That smiles to see men die. Oh, cobra-curlèd! Fierce-fanged fair one! Draw Night’s curtain o’er the landscape of thy hair! I yield! I kneel! I own, I bless thy law That dooms me to despair. I mark the crimson ruby of thy lips, I feel the witching weirdness of thy breath! I droop! I sink into my soul’s eclipse,―― I fall in love with death! And yet, vouchsafe a moment! I would gaze Once more into those sweetly-murderous eyes, Soft glimmering athwart the pearly haze That smites to dusk the skies! Hast thou no pity? Must I darkly tread The unknown paths that lead me wide from thee? Hast though no garland for this aching head That soon so low must be? No sound? No sigh? No smile? Is _all_ forgot? Then spin my shroud out of that golden skein Thou call’st thy tresses! _I_ shall stay thee not―― My struggles were but vain! But shall I see thee far beyond the sun, When the new dawn lights empyrean scenes? What matters now? I know the poem’s done, And wonder what the dickens it all means! _Judy._ July 21, 1880. [Illustration] Here is another parody of Mr. C. S. Calverley’s style:―― ON THE RIVER. It is sweet to sip the breezes In September; and it pleases Folks like me, whose work decreases When its hot, To depart from one’s landlady, Very shortly after pay-day, And to settle in some shady Kind of spot. In September I am lazy, And my thoughts are rather mazy, So I love the aspect hazy Of some glade, When the autumn moon uprises O’er the hill, and me surprises, Talking trash that full of sighs is, To that maid.