Pure was the life she led Then--from this Muff, 'tis said, Tracts she distributed:-- Scapegraces many, Seeing the grace they lacked, Followed her--one, in fact, Asked for--and got his tract Oftener than any. Love has a potent spell! Soon this bold Ne'er-do-well, Aunt's sweet susceptible Heart undermining, Slipped, so the scandal runs, Notes in the pretty nun's Muff--triple-cornered ones-- Pink as its lining! Worse even, soon the jade Fled (to oblige her blade!) Whilst her friends thought that they'd Locked her up tightly: After such shocking games Aunt is of wedded dames Gayest--and now her name's Mrs. Golightly. In female conduct flaw Sadder I never saw, Still I've faith in the law Of compensation. Once Uncle went astray-- Smoked, joked, and swore away-- Sworn by, he's now, by a Large congregation! Changed is the Child of Sin, Now he's (he once was thin) Grave, with a double chin,-- Blest be his fat form! Changed is the garb he wore,-- Preacher was never more Prized than is Uncle for Pulpit or platform. If all's as best befits Mortals of slender wits, Then beg this Muff, and its Fair Owner pardon: _All's for the best_,--indeed Such is _my_ simple creed-- Still I must go and weed Hard in my garden. A HUMAN SKULL. A human skull! I bought it passing cheap,-- It might be dearer to its first employer; I thought mortality did well to keep Some mute memento of the Old Destroyer. Time was, some may have prized its blooming skin, Here lips were wooed perchance in transport tender;-- Some may have chucked what was a dimpled chin, And never had my doubt about its gender! Did she live yesterday or ages back? What colour were the eyes when bright and waking? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black, Poor little head! that long has done with aching? It may have held (to shoot some random shots) Thy brains, Eliza Fry,--or Baron Byron's, The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor Watts,-- Two quoted bards! two philanthropic sirens! But this I surely knew before I closed The bargain on the morning that I bought it; It was not half so bad as some supposed, Nor quite as good as many may have thought it. Who love, can need no special type of death; He bares his awful face too soon, too often; "Immortelles" bloom in Beauty's bridal wreath, And does not yon green elm contain a coffin? O, _cara_ mine, what lines of care are these? The heart still lingers with the golden hours, An Autumn tint is on the chestnut trees, And where is all that boasted wealth of flowers?