Ah delectablest of summers! How my heart—that “muffled drum” Which ignores the aid of drummers— Beats, as back thy memories come! Oh, among the dancers peerless, Fleet of foot, and soft of eye! Need I say to you that cheerless Must my days be till I die? At my side she mashed the fragrant Strawberry; lashes soft as silk Drooped o’er saddened eyes, when vagrant Gnats sought watery graves in milk: Then we danced, we walked together; Talked—no doubt on trivial topics; Such as Blondin, or the weather, Which “recalled us to the tropics.” But—oh! in the deuxtemps peerless, Fleet of foot, and soft of eye!— Once more I repeat, that cheerless Shall my days be till I die. And the lean and hungry raven, As he picks my bones, will start To observe ‘M. N.’ engraven Neatly on my blighted heart. STRIKING. IT was a railway passenger, And he lept out jauntilie. “Now up and bear, thou stout portèr, My two chattèls to me. “Bring hither, bring hither my bag so red, And portmanteau so brown: (They lie in the van, for a trusty man He labelled them London town:) “And fetch me eke a cabman bold, That I may be his fare, his fare; And he shall have a good shilling, If by two of the clock he do me bring To the Terminus, Euston Square.” “Now,—so to thee the saints alway, Good gentleman, give luck,— As never a cab may I find this day, For the cabman wights have struck: And now, I wis, at the Red Post Inn, Or else at the Dog and Duck, Or at Unicorn Blue, or at Green Griffin, The nut-brown ale and the fine old gin Right pleasantly they do suck.” “Now rede me aright, thou stout portèr, What were it best that I should do: For woe is me, an I reach not there Or ever the clock strike two.” “I have a son, a lytel son; Fleet is his foot as the wild roebuck’s: Give him a shilling, and eke a brown, And he shall carry thy chattels down, To Euston, or half over London town, On one of the station trucks.” Then forth in a hurry did they twain fare, The gent, and the son of the stout portèr, Who fled like an arrow, nor turned a hair, Through all the mire and muck: “A ticket, a ticket, sir clerk, I pray: For by two of the clock must I needs away.” “That may hardly be,” the clerk did say, “For indeed—the clocks have struck.” VOICES OF THE NIGHT. “The tender Grace of a day that is past.” THE dew is on the roses, The owl hath spread her wing; And vocal are the noses Of peasant and of king: “Nature” (in short) “reposes;” But I do no such thing. Pent in my lonesome study Here I must sit and muse; Sit till the morn grows ruddy, Till, rising with the dews, “Jeameses” remove the muddy Spots from their masters’ shoes.