Fly Leaves | Page 2

one can.
Sweet to haste, a licensed lover, to Miss Pinkerton the glover,
Having managed to discover what is dear Neaera's "size": P'raps to
touch that wrist so slender, as your tiny gift you tender,
And to read you're no offender, in those laughing hazel eyes.
Then to hear her call you "Harry," when she makes you fetch and carry
-
O young men about to marry, what a blessed thing it is!
To be
photograph'd--together--cased in pretty Russia leather -
Hear her gravely doubting whether they have spoilt your honest phiz!
Then to bring your plighted fair one first a ring--a rich and rare one -

Next a bracelet, if she'll wear one, and a heap of things beside; And
serenely bending o'er her, to inquire if it would bore her
To say when her own adorer may aspire to call her bride!
Then, the days of courtship over, with your WIFE to start for Dover
Or Dieppe--and live in clover evermore, whate'er befalls: For I've read
in many a novel that, unless they've souls that grovel,
Folks PREFER in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls:
To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's
Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects
the lucky pheasant--that, I think, were passing pleasant;
As I sit alone at present, dreaming darkly of a Dun.
THE PALACE.
They come, they come, with fife and drum,
And gleaming pikes and glancing banners:
Though the eyes flash, the
lips are dumb;
To talk in rank would not be manners.
Onward they stride, as Britons
can;
The ladies following in the Van.
Who, who be these that tramp in threes
Through sumptuous Piccadilly, through
The roaring Strand, and stand
at ease
At last 'neath shadowy Waterloo?
Some gallant Guild, I ween, are
they;
Taking their annual holiday.
To catch the destin'd train--to pay

Their willing fares, and plunge within it -
Is, as in old Romaunt they
say,
With them the work of half-a-minute.
Then off they're whirl'd, with
songs and shouting,
To cedared Sydenham for their outing.
I mark'd them light, with faces bright
As pansies or a new coin'd florin,
And up the sunless stair take flight,
Close-pack'd as rabbits in a warren.
Honour the Brave, who in that
stress
Still trod not upon Beauty's dress!
Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;
In every kerchief lurk'd a lunch;
When they unfurl'd them, it was
grand
To watch bronzed men and maidens crunch
The sounding
celery-stick, or ram
The knife into the blushing ham.
Dash'd the bold fork through pies of pork;
O'er hard-boil'd eggs the saltspoon shook;
Leapt from its lair the
playful cork:
Yet some there were, to whom the brook
Seem'd sweetest beverage,
and for meat
They chose the red root of the beet.
Then many a song, some rather long,
Came quivering up from girlish throats;
And one young man he came
out strong,
And gave "The Wolf" without his notes.
While they who knew not
song or ballad
Still munch'd, approvingly, their salad.

But ah! what bard could sing how hard,
The artless banquet o'er, they ran
Down the soft slope with daisies
starr'd
And kingcups! onward, maid with man,
They flew, to scale the
breezy swing,
Or court frank kisses in the ring.
Such are the sylvan scenes that thrill
This heart! The lawns, the happy shade,
Where matrons, whom the
sunbeams grill,
Stir with slow spoon their lemonade;
And maidens flirt (no extra
charge)
In comfort at the fountain's marge!
Others may praise the "grand displays"
Where "fiery arch," "cascade," and "comet,"
Set the whole garden in
a "blaze"!
Far, at such times, may I be from it;
Though then the public may be
"lost
In wonder" at a trifling cost.
Fann'd by the breeze, to puff at ease
My faithful pipe is all I crave:
And if folks rave about the "trees
Lit up by fireworks," let them rave.
Your monster fetes, I like not
these;
Though they bring grist to the lessees.
PEACE--A STUDY.
He stood, a worn-out City clerk -
Who'd toil'd, and seen no holiday,
For forty years from dawn to dark -

Alone beside Caermarthen Bay.
He felt the salt spray on his lips;
Heard children's voices on the sands;
Up the sun's path he saw the
ships
Sail on and on to other lands;
And laugh'd aloud. Each sight and sound
To him was joy too deep for tears;
He sat him on the beach, and
bound
A blue bandana round his ears:
And thought how, posted near his door,
His own green door on Camden Hill,
Two bands at least, most likely
more,
Were mingling at their own sweet will
Verdi with Vance. And at the thought
He laugh'd again, and softly drew
That Morning Herald that he'd
bought
Forth from his breast, and read it through.
THE ARAB.
On, on, my brown Arab, away, away!
Thou hast trotted o'er many a
mile to-day,
And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare
Since they
roused thee at