"Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead Now in loose disorder stray; Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers Cut those ragged points away; Let no more thy calculations Thy bewildered brain beset; Life has other hopes than Cocker's, Other joys than tare and tret. "Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, Waiting to the very last, Twenty minutes after seven, And 'tis now the quarter past. 'Tis a dinner which Lucullus Would have wept with joy to see, One, might wake the soul of Curtis From death's drowsy atrophy. "There is soup of real turtle, Turbot, and the dainty sole; And the mottled roe of lobsters Blushes through the butter-bowl. There the lordly haunch of mutton, Tender as the mountain grass, Waits to mix its ruddy juices With the girdling caper-sauce. "There a stag, whose branching forehead Spoke him monarch of the herds, He whose flight was o'er the heather Swift as through the air the bird's, Yields for thee a dish of cutlets; And the haunch that wont to dash O'er the roaring mountain-torrent, Smokes in most delicious hash. "There, besides, are amber jellies Floating like a golden dream; Ginger from the far Bermudas, Dishes of Italian cream; And a princely apple-dumpling, Which my own fair fingers wrought, Shall unfold its nectared treasures To thy lips all smoking hot. "Ha! I see thy brow is clearing, Lustre flashes from thine eyes; To thy lips I see the moisture Of anticipation rise. Hark! the dinner-bell is sounding!" "Only wait one moment, Jane: I'll be dressed, and down, before you Can get up the iced champagne!" The Husband's Petition. Come hither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee. You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love. I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire. The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Is feebler than the agony That murders my repose! Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek: I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine: And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above: These little taper fingers-- Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me. Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best-- By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes; By all we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June; And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel music, When first I wooed thee, dear!