THERE are two sisters; óne with bright,
Gay, laughing eyes, full of delight,

And outstretched hand and warm embrace,
And jóy-irrádiated face,

And step alert, and such sweet voice

As mákes the hearer's heart rejoice.

Nó company is to my mind

In which I don't this sister find.

Néver in this world was seen
Maiden óf more opposite mien
Than th' other sister: sóbs and sighs,
Droóping lids and tearful eyes,
And heavy footstep, lingering slow,
Unwilling, yet prepared, to go,
And handkerchief white-waving still,
And prayers to Heaven to avert all ill.
Néver lóng, be it whére it may,
When I meét this maid I stay,
But right-aboút face, and away.
***COME they call the cheerful maid,
FARE *** the melancholy jade;
Bóth in one house live and attend

The cóming and the parting friend,

One opens, and one shuts,

the door;

"Et grato remeat securior ictu."

IN Róme's old days of glóry, when a cítizén thought fit
A wéll desérving sláve, of free grace, to mánumít,

He called the várlet tó him, and, bidding him steády stánd,
A smárt slap on the cheek dealt hím with open hand,
And said: "Thy freedom táke and with it mý last blów;
Much good may they both do thee; there thou art freé to go."

That sight I never saw; but I 've seen as cúrious sight
When it pleased a sóvereign prince to máke a bélted knight;
For he called the fellow tó him, and både him down to kneel,
And slapped him on the shoulder with the flát side of his steél,
And said: "Get úp, Sir knight, and about thy business gó,
And take with thee fór remembrance my last and párting blów."
And úp the gallant knight got fróm his bénded knee
With the blow upón his shoulders, the pink of chivalrý;
For a prínce is hónor's foúntain, only source of dignitý,
And his blów chiválrous mákes, as the old Róman's blów
made freé.

And I'm sorry I wasn't bý, when, defying áll beliéf,
A British prínce a knight made out of a loín of beef:

"Get úp, Sir loín," he said, with a flát slap óf his knife, And worthier knight made néver the goód prince ín his life. GOTHA, Octob. 14, 1855.

MUSINANDO.

POET.

O thou who all things here belów understandest,
From whóm Heaven hides nóthing, who seest into Cháos,

Far Limbo, dim Púrgať'ry, Tártarus deép,

Who delightest thy friends to instruct and enlighten,

Who never forgéttest and mák'st no mistákes,

Have I leave, in the State's name, O Múse, to put to thee Some few questions statístic concerning thyself?

MUSE.

I'm no friend of statístics revived Inquisitions

Th' old sérpent crept back in the guise of a lámb;
But no matter, the Státe has a right to commánd me;
Proceed with thy business and lét me be going.

POET.

First of all, with a view to idéntificátion,

The Státe asks thy náme.

MUSE.

Asks my

náme! let me think

Euterpe, Melpomene, Érato, Clío,
Terpsichore, Polýmnia, Uránia, Thalía,
Aéde, Calliope, Mélite, Mnéme→→→

Choose which thou lik'st bést

one 's as good as another

Perhaps nóne quite correct, but I ánswer to áll.

POET.

That's the first point disposed of. Now, what's thy religion?

MUSE.

Like the State's, it depends upon tíme, place and fashion; Long Págan, then Christian; Mahómmedan néver,

Never Mórmon or Jewish, though with time 'tmay be either.

POET.

That's the second point settled. Now, whére wert thou born?

MUSE.

In Beótia my foés say, my friends say in Heaven;
My own mémory though lóng doesn't go quite so fár.

Can't one have a good mémory without being old?
Must the Státe know a lády's age júst to an hoúr?
No; I'll not be cross-questioned

I've never been used

And thou too, Mr. Poet, to make thyself párty!
Whither 's gallantry, chivalry, courtesy fléd?
It's the fron Age cóme back Et tú, Brute, tú!

Fare thee well; happy live; serve the Státe; keep progréssing
Like the blind grinding horse that thinks going round 's

POET.

I'll go after but where shall I find her?

Whither turn to look fór her? her dómicile whére?

Fool! that might'st to that question have hád her own answer Hadst thou deált but a little more gingerly with her

And not touched her áge till thou 'dst leárned her abóde
As it stands in the schédule: ABÓDE - CALLING ÁGE
Wise schedule! well, help there was never for spilled milk;
So patience, as Máro says, "Ét vosmet rébus

Serváte secúndis;" i. e. in plain prose:

The dear girl when she comes next perhaps may be sófter

I'll depend on thee, Máro, for whó ever bétter

Than Máro the maid knew, or questioned her clóser,

--

not quite faír —

wórse kept her sécrets? thou 'st been scúrvily treated,

Or gót her to tell more, or
Not quite faír

Poor Múse, I must ówn; and if thou but cóm'st back
And talk'st kindly with me, and this once forgiv'st me,

I swear by Parnássus I 'll néver to mórtal
One syllable útter of áll that has happened,

Or ask thee from henceforth one pérsonal question;
Let the State, if it will, do its own shabby business,
Or some one, more fitted than Í, find, to dó it;
I'll be none of its pímp See! I teár up the schedule
There she cómes! welcome back! that 's my own darling girl!
So byegones are byegones, and once more we 're friends.
CARLSRUHE, Nov. 26, 1855.

THE ASTRONOMERS.

Ir chanced as I pássed by my bárn one fine évening
Few barns have so spléndid a view to the Wést —
I saw, side by side on the hálf-door perched cózy,
My cóck and my hén and a six-weeks-old chicken.

As I stood looking at them, and they at the sunset
That was painting with góld me and them and the bárn,
Says the hén in reply to a question the chicken

Had júst put:

"I'll tell you, my dear, all about it:

"The sun séts in the Wést; then beneath the round earth

Goes across to the East and there rises again;

His rising makes day and his setting makes night,
And so he goes círcling for éver and éver."