Lastly, thoú engagest

Thát no óne shall hénceforth

Táke me fór a woman

Ór dwarfed, withered schoolboy.

Í, on my part, bind me
Évery day to trim thee,

Wásh, comb, oil and brúsh thee

Ánd in órder keep thee;

Álso to my lást gasp
Stoútly to defend thee
Fróm the extérmináting
Bárber's soap and rázor.

Só in strict alliance
We shall live together,
Shéltering and protecting
Úntil death each other.

Óf our sólemn treáty

This the protocól is.

Keep thou thý word, gray beard,

And I'll trúly mine keep.

QUEEN'S SQUARE, BLOOMSBURY, LONDON; Dec. 3, 1854.

EVENING ODE,

ADAPTED TO THE PSYCHOLOGICAL AND POETICAL TASTE OF THE AGE.

HARK! 'tis the meditative hour

When the soul feels in all their power

Its aspirations heavenward rise

Drawing it gently toward the skies
And high angelic colloquies.

Welcome! sweet hour of rest and calm,
That bring'st the wounded spirit balm,
That, mild as thine own pensive star,
Stillest the breast's intestine war,
And bidd'st the passions cease to jar.

Let nó unhallowed thought intrude
Upón my evening solitude,

When faith and hope with taper bright
Scattering the darkness of the night
Shed áll around extatic light,

Pointing to realms of bliss above,
Régions of innocence and love,

Where néver breast shall heave a sigh,

Where never tear shall dim the eye,

Where none are born and none shall die;

Where spirits, that here lived in pain
Drágging their sordid earthly chain,
Ín-entering at the narrow door
Shall bathe in bliss for evermore
Upón a safe and stormless shore.

DALKEY LODGE, DALKEY (IRELAND), Febr. 9, 1855.

SATURDAY clothed in plain drúgget
Ánd with care and hárd work worn out,
Happened once to meet her idle

Sister Sunday in her sátins:

"I'm so glad to meet you, sister,"
Saturday in húmble tóne said,
"Fór I know you 're ténderhearted
And will lend a hand to help me.

"Fróm before daylight this morning
Í 've been washing up and scrúbbing,
Brúshing, dusting, réguláting,

Till I've not a bóne but 's áching.

"Cóme, do pút your hand to, sister; Éxercise you knów is wholesome

Ánd a sóvereign cúre for énnui

And you 're looking dúll and lánguid.”

"Nóthing would so múch delíght me,"
Answered Sunday with a símper,
"Ás in any way ť oblige you,
Ór your heavy búrden líghten;

"Bút I need not tell you, sister, Hów I make 't a point of conscience Tó live álways like a lády

And with nó work soil my fingers.

"Ánd even wére I, which I am not, Óf myself inclined to lábor,

Gód's commandment is explícit:

'Mý seventh child shall dó no lábor."

"God's seventh child! why, thát 's myself," said

Sáturday laying down her rúbber;

"Whát a fool I 've been to wórk so!

Bút in future f 'll be wiser.

"Hów came yoú so lóng to insist on 't "Twas the first child wás exémpted, Ánd make your six younger sisters Wórk, to keep you like a lády?

"Nów you 've lét by chánce the trúth out,
Ít 's the seventh child is exémpted
Take the scrúbber; ón your knees down;
Í 'll dress fine and pray and idle."

"You had once your túrn," said Sunday,
"The seventh child once wás exémpted,
And I worked just as you nów do,
Í and your five élder sisters;

ás

"Bút you grew so proúd and saúcy

Heaven or eárth could nót endúre it, Ánd your birthright was taken from you Ánd bestowed upón your bétters."

"I remember well the robbery
And the liés to justify it;

Ánd how, nót t' expose the family,
Í put up with 't ánd said nothing.

"I remember toó, my sisters,

When they advised me to keep quiet,
Próphesied you 'd soón grow proúder,
Saúcier får than éver Í was.

""Lét her have it,' óne and áll cried;
'Prívilége was éver ódious;

Lét her have it, máke the most of it;
Cóme, dear Sáturday, with ús work.'

"I obeyed; you took my title;
Called yourself God's Hóly Sábbath,
Dréssed in sátin, prayed and idled,
Ánd grew évery day more saúcy,

"Móre hardhearted, vain and sélfish, Móre intolerant, súpercílious,

Hypocrítical, óverbeáring,

Céremónious and religious,

"Till at last the whole world hátes you,

Feárs you nó less than despíses,

Cálls you in plain térms impóstor,

Foúl usurper óf my birthright.”