I cannot, quick life still within my veins,
I cannot feel a faith that presently
My cold oblivious body shall lie there,
Void of the soul, an ended nothingness.

Olymn. Thou art too young, and death unnatural.

Myr. Klydone thinks all death unnatural.

Olymn. If nature stood for perfectness, it were.

And therein is the better after-hope : For perfectness must be, since we conceive it,

And, not being here, 't is in some second life.

Myr. I'll think my soul shall, like the sunward swallows,

Having known but summer here, renew it there.

Enter LYSIS.

Lys. Klydone, sir, Klydone - [Stops. Myr. Comes she not? Tell her to make more speed, for I grow heavy.

Lys. She comes; she bade them carry her; she 's half dead.

Myr. I am awake, I think. Say it again. Half dead?

Lys. She took the poison at due time; She said 't was at due time by thine own count;

She said thou shouldst have call'd her in an hour,

And she was ready then: but 't was too long,

More than an hour, and so she must go first That did but mean to follow thee afterwards.

Olymn. Well, 't is her right.
Myr.
Is it a message, boy?
Lys. She said it by gasps; then bade
me, if she died,

Tell it thee for her, and thou 'dst know and pardon.

She is coming.

Myr.

She go first! Klydone die ! Olymnios, hast thou heard? Olymn. weep her going with thee. 'Tis the

Nor

best.

I blame her not;

- FREDERICK LOCKER

Lys. Myr.

Yes.

465

Throw the curtains back.

Put out those lights. Now sing until I
sleep.
[Exeunt Servants.
No dirges, boy; that song Klydone lov'd,
Philomel and the aloe flower, sing that.
Lys. [Sings.]

Joy that's half too keen and true
Makes us tears.

Oh the sweetness of the tears!
If such joy at hand appears,
Snatch it, give thine all for it :
Joy that is so exquisite,

Lost, comes not new.

(One blossom for a hundred years.)

Grief that's fond, and dies not soon,
Makes delight.

Oh the pain of the delight!
If thy grief be Love's aright,
Tend it close and let it grow :
Grief so tender not to know

Loses Love's boon.

Years ago, twenty-three,
Old Uncle Doubledee
Gave it to Aunty P.

Laughing and teasing:
"Prue of the breezy curls,
Whisper those solemn churls,
What holds a pretty girl's

Hand without squeezing?"
Uncle was then a lad
Gay, but, I grieve to add,
Sinful, if smoking bad
Baccy's a vice :
Glossy was then this mink
Muff, lined with pretty pink
Satin, which maidens think
"Awfully nice!"

I seem to see again

Aunt in her hood and train
Glide, with a sweet disdain,
Gravely to Meeting:
Psalm-book, and kerchief new,
Peep'd from the Muff of Prue;
Young men, and pious too,
Giving her greeting.

Sweetly her Sabbath sped
Then ; from this Muff, it's said,
Tracts she distributed :

Converts (till Monday !),

Worse follow'd soon the jade
Fled (to oblige her blade !)

Whilst her friends thought that they'd
Lock'd 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.

Faith still I've in the law

Of compensation.
Once Uncle went astray,
Smok'd, jok'd, 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 Priz'd 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.

TO MY MISTRESS

COUNTESS, I see the flying year, And feel how Time is wasting here: Ay, more, he soon his worst will do, And garner all your roses too.

It pleases Time to fold his wings Around our best and fairest things; He'll mar your blooming cheek, as now He stamps his mark upon my brow.

The same mute planets rise and shine To rule your days and nights as mine: Once I was young and gay, and, see. What I am now you soon will be.

And yet I boast a certain charm
That shields me from your worst alarm;
And bids me gaze, with front sublime,
On all these ravages of Time.

You boast a gift to charm the eyes,
I boast a gift that Time defies:
For mine will still be mine, and last
When all your pride of beauty's past.

My gift may long embalm the lures
Of eyes-ah, sweet to me as yours!
For ages hence the great and good
Will judge you as I choose they should.

In days to come, the peer or clown,
With whom I still shall win renown,
Will only know that you were fair
Because I chanced to say you were.

Proud Lady! Scornful beauty mocks
At aged heads and silver locks;
But think awhile before you fly,
Or spurn a poet such as I.

THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD

THE characters of great and small

Come ready-made, we can't bespeak one; Their sides are many, too, and all

(Except ourselves) have got a weak one. Some sanguine people love for life,

Some love their hobby till it flings them. How many love a pretty wife

For love of the éclat she brings them!

A little to relieve my mind

I've thrown off this disjointed chatter, But more because I'm disinclin'd

To enter on a painful matter: Once I was bashful; I'll allow

I've blush'd for words untimely spoken;

I still am rather shy, and now.

And now the ice is fairly broken.

We all have secrets: you have one Which may n't be quite your charming spouse's ;

We all lock up a skeleton

In some grim chamber of our houses; Familiars, who exhaust their days

And nights in probing where our smart is,

And who, excepting spiteful ways,
Are "silent, unassuming parties."

We hug this phantom we detest,
Rarely we let it cross our portals;
It is a most exacting guest:

Now, are we not afflicted mortals?
Your neighbor Gay, that jovial wight,
As Dives rich, and brave as Hector,-
Poor Gay steals twenty times a night,
On shaking knees, to see his spectre.

Old Dives fears a pauper fate,

So hoarding is his ruling passion : Some gloomy souls anticipate

A waistcoat straiter than the fashion!

Ah me, the World! - how fast it spins! The beldams dance, the caldron bubbles; They shriek, they stir it for our sins,

And we must drain it for our troubles. We toil, we groan; the cry for love Mounts up from this poor seething city, And yet I know we have above A FATHER infinite in pity.

When Beauty smiles, when Sorrow weeps, Where sunbeams play, where shadows darken,

One inmate of our dwelling keeps

Its ghastly carnival; but hearken! How dry the rattle of the bones!

That sound was not to make you start
meant:

Stand by! Your humble servant owns
The Tenant of this Dark Apartment.