The lady's smile showed no remorse,-- "My worthless toy hath lost its gilding," I murmured with pathetic force, "And here's an end of castle building;" Then strode away in mood morose, To blame the Sage of Careless Close, He trifled with my tale of sorrow,-- "What's marred to-day is made to-morrow; Romance can roam not far from home, Knock gently, she must answer soon; I'm sixty-five, and yet I strive To hang my garland on the moon." GLYCERE. OLD MAN. In gala dress, and smiling! Sweet, What seek you in my green retreat? YOUNG GIRL. I gather flowers to deck my hair,-- The village yonder claims the best, For lad and lass are thronging there To dance the sober sun to rest. Hark! hark! the rebec calls,--Glycere Again may foot it on the green; Her rivalry I need not fear, These flowers shall crown the Village Queen. OLD MAN. You long have known this tranquil ground? YOUNG GIRL. It all seems strangely marred to me. OLD MAN. Light heart! there sleeps beneath this mound The brightest of yon company. The flowers that should eclipse Glycere Are hers, poor child,--her grave is here! VAE VICTIS. "My Kate, at the Waterloo Column, To-morrow, precisely at eight; Remember, thy promise was solemn, And--thine till to-morrow, my Kate!" * * * * * That evening seemed strangely to linger,-- The licence and luggage were packed; And Time, with a long and short finger, Approvingly marked me exact. Arrived, woman's constancy blessing, No end of nice people I see; Some hither, some thitherwards pressing,-- But none of them waiting for me. Time passes, my watch how I con it! I see her--she's coming--no, stuff! Instead of Kate's smart little bonnet, It is aunt, and her wonderful muff! (Yes, Fortune deserves to be chidden, It is a coincidence queer, Whenever one wants to be hidden, One's relatives always appear.) Near nine! how the passers despise me, They smile at my anguish, I think; And even the sentinel eyes me, And tips that policeman the wink. Ah! Kate made me promises solemn, At eight she had vowed to be mine;-- While waiting for one at this column, I find I've been waiting for nine. O Fame! on thy pillar so steady, Some dupes watch beneath thee in vain:-- How many have done it already! How many will do it again! IMPLORA PACE. (ONE HUNDRED YEARS HENCE.) One hundred years! a long, long scroll Of dust to dust, and woe, How soon my passing knell will toll! Is Death a friend or foe? My days are often sad--and vain Is much that tempts me to remain --And yet I'm loth to go. Oh, must I tread yon sunless shore-- Go hence, and then be seen no more?