Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked),

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;
A twopenny treasury, wondrous to see;
What matter? 't is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require,
Than the creeking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 't is wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp;
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp;
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn:
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long, through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,

Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;

As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,

There's one that I love and I cherish the best: For the finest of couches that's padded with hair I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed

chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, wormeaten seat,

With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms,

A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms;

427

I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place, She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face!

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,
Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a
prince;

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I declare,
The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed

chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's

gone,

In the silence of night as I sit here alone-
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair.
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-

She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

RONSARD TO HIS MISTRESS.

"Quand vous serez bien vieille, le soir à la chandelle Assise auprès du feu devisant et filant,

Direz, chantant mes vers en vous esmerveillant, Ronsard m'a célébrée du temps que j'étois belle."

SOME winter night, shut snugly in
Beside the fagot in the hall,

I think I see you sit and spin,

Surrounded by your maidens all.
Old tales are told, old songs are sung,
Old days come back to memory;
You say,
"When I was fair and young,
A poet sang of me!"

There's not a maiden in your hall,
Though tired and sleepy ever so,
But wakes, as you my name recall,
And longs the history to know.
And, as the piteous tale is said,

Of lady cold and lover true,
Each, musing, carries it to bed,

And sighs and envies you!

"Our lady's old and feeble now,"

They'll say; "she once was fresh and fair, And yet she spurned her lover's vow,

And heartless left him to despair: The lover lies in silent earth,

No kindly mate the lady cheers; She sits beside a lonely hearth,

With threescore and ten years!"

Ah! dreary thoughts and dreams are those,
But wherefore yield me to despair,
While yet the poet's bosom glows,

While yet the dame is peerless fair!
Sweet lady mine! while yet 't is time
Requite my passion and my truth,
And gather in their blushing prime
The roses of your youth!

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

ALTHOUGH I enter not, Yet round about the spot

Ofttimes I hover: And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait, Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming:
They 've hushed the Minster bell;
The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming, she's coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast:

She comes-she's here-she 's passed-
May heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the Barber's shear,

All your wish is woman to win,
This is the way that boys begin-
Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains,

Billing and cooing is all your cheer; Sighing and singing of midnight strains, Under Bonnybell's window-panes

Wait till you come to Forty Year.

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear-
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,

Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round, I bid ye declare,

All good fellows whose beards are gray, Did not the fairest of the fair Common grow and wearisome ere

Ever a month was passed away?

The reddest lips that ever have kissed,

The brightest eyes that ever have shone, May pray and whisper, and we not list,

WHEN MOONLIKE ORE THE HAZURE SEAS.

WHEN moonlike ore the hazure seas
In soft effulgence swells,
When silver jews and balmy breeze
Bend down the Lily's bells;
When calm and deap, the rosy sleap

Has lapt your soal in dreems,
R Hangeline! R lady mine!

Dost thou remember Jeames?

I mark thee in the Marble All,
Where England's loveliest shine-
I say the fairest of them hall
Is Lady Hangeline.

My soul, in desolate eclipse,

With recollection teems

And then I hask, with weeping lips, Dost thou remember Jeames?

Away! I may not tell thee hall

This soughring heart enduresThere is a lonely sperrit-call

That Sorrow never cures; There is a little, little Star,

That still above me beams;

It is the Star of Hope-but ar! Dost thou remember, Jeames?

KING CANUTE.

KING CANUTE was weary-hearted; he had reigned for years a score,

Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more;

And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore.

Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate,

Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages-all the officers of state.

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause,

If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws;

If to laugh the King was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws.