The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 9

are here:?Say, where are all the seals he gave?To every ringlet's jetty wave,?And where is every one he printed?Upon that lip, so ruby-tinted--?Seals of the purest gem of bliss,?Oh! richer, softer, far than this!
"And then the ring--my love! recall?How many rings, delicious all,?His arms around that neck hath twisted,?Twining warmer far than this did!?Where are they all, so sweet, so many??Oh! dearest, give back all, if any!"
While thus I murmur'd, trembling too?Lest all the nymph had vow'd was true,?I saw a smile relenting rise?'Mid the moist azure of her eyes.?Like day-light o'er a sea of blue,?While yet the air is dim with dew!?She let her cheek repose on mine,?She let my arms around her twine--?Oh! who can tell the bliss one feels?In thus exchanging rings and seals!
NETS AND CAGES.
THOMAS MOORE.
Come, listen to my story, while?Your needle's task you ply;?At what I sing some maids will smile,?While some, perhaps, may sigh.?Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames?Such florid songs as ours,?Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames,?Can speak her thoughts by flowers.?Then listen, maids, come listen, while?Your needle's task you ply;?At what I sing there's some may smile,?While some, perhaps, will sigh.?Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,?Such nets had learn'd to frame,?That none, in all our vales and groves,?Ere caught so much small game:?While gentle Sue, less given to roam,?When Cloe's nets were taking?These flights of birds, sat still at home,?One small, neat Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;?But mark how things went on:?These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask?Their name and age, were gone!?So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,?That, though she charm'd into them?New game each hour, the youngest Love?Was able to break through them.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought?Of bars too strong to sever,?One love with golden pinions caught,?And caged him there forever;?Instructing thereby, all coquettes,?Whate'er their looks or ages,?That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,?'Tis wiser to make Cages.?Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile?The task your fingers ply--?May all who hear, like Susan smile,?Ah! not like Cloe sigh!
SALAD.
SYDNEY SMITH.
To make this condiment, your poet begs?The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs;?Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,?Smoothness and softness to the salad give;?Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,?And, half-suspected, animate the whole.?Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,?Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;?But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,?To add a double quantity of salt.?And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss?A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.?Oh, green and glorious! Oh, herbaceous treat!?'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;?Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,?And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl!?Serenely full, the epicure would say,?Fate can not harm me, I have dined to-day!
MY LETTERS.
R. HARRIS BARHAM.
"Litera scripta manet."--Old Saw.
Another mizzling, drizzling day!?Of clearing up there's no appearance;?So I'll sit down without delay,?And here, at least, I'll make a clearance!
Oh ne'er "on such a day as this,"?Would Dido with her woes oppressed?Have woo'd AEneas back to bliss,?Or Trolius gone to hunt for Cressid!
No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me,?And popp'd their toes upon the fender,?And drank a quiet cup of tea:?On days like this one can't be tender.
So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,?And put my desk upon the table--?Bring that portfolio--stir the fire--?Now off as fast as you are able!
First here's a card from Mrs. Grimes,?"A ball!"--she knows that I'm no dancer--?That woman's ask'd me fifty times,?And yet I never send an answer.
"DEAR JACK,--
Just lend me twenty pounds,?Till Monday next, when I'll return it.
Yours truly,
HENRY GIBBS."
Why Z--ds!

I've seen the man but twice--here, burn it.
One from my cousin Sophy Daw--?Full of Aunt Margery's distresses;?"The cat has kitten'd 'in the DRAW,'?And ruin'd two bran-new silk dresses."
From Sam, "The Chancellor's motto,"--nay?Confound his puns, he knows I hate 'em;?"Pro Rege, Lege, Grege,"--Ay,?"For King read Mob!" Brougham's old erratum.
From Seraphina Price--"At two"--?"Till then I can't, my dearest John, stir;"?Two more because I did not go,?Beginning "Wretch" and "Faithless Monster!
"Dear Sir,--
"This morning Mrs. P---?Who's doing quite as well as may be,?Presented me at half past three?Precisely, with another baby.
"Well name it John, and know with pleasure?You'll stand"--Five guineas more, confound it!--?I wish they'd call it Nebuchadnezzar,?Or thrown it in the Thames and drown'd it.
What have we next? A civil dun:?"John Brown would take it as a favor"--?Another, and a surlier one,?"I can't put up with SICH behavior."
"Bill so long standing,"--"quite tired out,"--?"Must sit down to insist on payment,"?"Called ten times,"--Here's a fuss about?A few coats, waistcoats, and small raiment.
For once I'll send an answer, and inform?Mr. Snip he needn't "call"