And it was you, my Thomas, you, The friend in whom my soul confided, Who dared to gaze on her—to do, I may say, much the same as I did. One night I _saw_ him squeeze her hand; There was no doubt about the matter; I said he must resign, or stand My vengeance—and he chose the latter. We met, we ‘planted’ blows on blows: We fought as long as we were able: My rival had a bottle-nose, And both my speaking eyes were sable. When the school-bell cut short our strife, Miss P. gave both of us a plaster; And in a week became the wife Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master. * * * I loved her then—I’d love her still, Only one must not love Another’s: But thou and I, my Tommy, will, When we again meet, meet as brothers. It may be that in age one seeks Peace only: that the blood is brisker In boy’s veins, than in theirs whose cheeks Are partially obscured by whisker; Or that the growing ages steal The memories of past wrongs from us. But this is certain—that I feel Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas! And wheresoe’er we meet again, On this or that side the equator, If I’ve not turned teetotaller then, And have wherewith to pay the waiter, To thee I’ll drain the modest cup, Ignite with thee the mild Havannah; And we will waft, while liquoring up, Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA. “There Stands a City.” INGOLDSBY. YEAR by year do Beauty’s daughters, In the sweetest gloves and shawls, Troop to taste the Chattenham waters, And adorn the Chattenham balls. ‘_Nulla non donanda lauru_’ Is that city: you could not, Placing England’s map before you, Light on a more favoured spot. If no clear translucent river Winds ’neath willow-shaded paths, “Children and adults” may shiver All day in “Chalybeate baths:” If “the inimitable Fechter” Never brings the gallery down, Constantly “the Great Protector” There “rejects the British crown:” And on every side the painter Looks on wooded vale and plain And on fair hills, faint and fainter Outlined as they near the main. There I met with him, my chosen Friend—the ‘long’ but not ‘stern swell,’ {15a} Faultless in his hats and hosen, Whom the Johnian lawns know well:— Oh my comrade, ever valued! Still I see your festive face; Hear you humming of “the gal you’d Left behind” in massive bass: See you sit with that composure On the eeliest of hacks, That the novice would suppose your Manly limbs encased in wax: Or anon,—when evening lent her Tranquil light to hill and vale,— Urge, towards the table’s centre, With unerring hand, the squail.