Yet once again I saw her, from the deck Of a black ship that steamed towards Blackwall. She walked upon _my first_. Her stately neck Bent o’er an object shrouded in her shawl: I could not see the tears—the glad tears—fall, Yet knew they fell. And “Ah,” I said, “not puppies, Seen unexpectedly, could lift the pall From hearts who _know_ what tasting misery’s cup is, As Niobe’s, or mine, or Mr. William Guppy’s.” * * * Spake John Grogblossom the coachman to Eliza Spinks the cook: “Mrs. Spinks,” says he, “I’ve foundered: ‘Liza dear, I’m overtook. Druv into a corner reglar, puzzled as a babe unborn; Speak the word, my blessed ‘Liza; speak, and John the coachman’s yourn.” Then Eliza Spinks made answer, blushing, to the coachman John: “John, I’m born and bred a spinster: I’ve begun and I’ll go on. Endless cares and endless worrits, well I knows it, has a wife: Cooking for a genteel family, John, it’s a goluptious life! “I gets £20 per annum—tea and things o’ course not reckoned,— There’s a cat that eats the butter, takes the coals, and breaks _my second_: There’s soci’ty—James the footman;—(not that I look after him; But he’s aff’ble in his manners, with amazing length of limb;)— “Never durst the missis enter here until I’ve said ‘Come in’: If I saw the master peeping, I’d catch up the rolling-pin. Christmas-boxes, that’s a something; perkisites, that’s something too; And I think, take all together, John, I won’t be on with you.” John the coachman took his hat up, for he thought he’d had enough; Rubbed an elongated forehead with a meditative cuff; Paused before the stable doorway; said, when there, in accents mild, “She’s a fine young ’oman, cook is; but that’s where it is, she’s spiled.” * * * I have read in some not marvellous tale, (Or if I have not, I’ve dreamed) Of one who filled up the convivial cup Till the company round him seemed To be vanished and gone, tho’ the lamps upon Their face as aforetime gleamed: And his head sunk down, and a Lethe crept O’er his powerful brain, and the young man slept. Then they laid him with care in his moonlit bed: But first—having thoughtfully fetched some tar— Adorned him with feathers, aware that the weather’s Uncertainty brings on at nights catarrh. They staid in his room till the sun was high: But still did the feathered one give no sign Of opening a peeper—he might be a sleeper Such as rests on the Northern or Midland line. At last he woke, and with profound Bewilderment he gazed around; Dropped one, then both feet to the ground, But never spake a word: Then to my _whole_ he made his way; Took one long lingering survey; And softly, as he stole away, Remarked, “By Jove, a bird!”