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“Fresh fish from Helicon! who 'll buy? who 'll buy?"

LORD BYRON, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers,

"FRESH fish from Helicon! who 'll buy? who 'll buy?”
Through London's streets I heard Lord Byron cry,
And, curious, stopped, and asked his lordship where
He found on Helicon a thing so rare,
So very rare as fish must always be
Upon a mountain, high above the sea.
His lordship, smiling civilly, replied,
That high on Hippocrene's steep mountain side
There was a fountain, Helicon by name,
Whence fish to market in great plenty came,
And asked me would I have some, and when I
No cash had, left me, and went on to cry

Fresh fish from Helicon! who 'll buy? who 'll buy?” RoSAMOND, Febr. 29, 1860.

LOOK circumspect round you before Danger comes ;
When Danger is come stand to arms, beat your drums;
When Danger 's gone by, you may play with your thumbs,
But your play must be short, for, behold! Danger comes,
Like a race-horse, again stand to arms; beat your drums:

Life 's a porridge of wormwood and sweet sugar-plums. ROSAMOND, May 13, 1860.


ITH two looking-glasses, the wise man of Greece said,

Most bountiful Nature supplied us;
One to show us what passes in other men's hearts;

This glass it's placed queerly

inside us.

outside us;

In our own hearts what passes we see in the other,

Which is placed just as queerly
And, of all places, where in the world do you think?

Why, deep in our friends' hearts - beside us.
ROSAMOND, March 16, 1860.

"Das Gemeine geht klanglos zum Orkus hinab."


LIKE weeds which a gardener throws out on the dunghill,

The vulgar go down, unremembered, to Orcus; But we weep the high-minded, and Poetry gathers,

And encloses their bones in a cerement of amber.

With such cerement of amber I'd fain wrap thy bones round,

Highest-minded of poets, my own beloved Schiller, Did I not know thy bones more enduring than amber,

More hallowed thy bier than the tears of thy poet. ROSAMOND, March 16, 1860.

In all things else thou mayst agree
With thy best friend, and he with thee;
In all things else but one alone
Guess, if thou canst, what is that one.

"Nay, in two things I can't agree
With my best friend, nor he with me:
First, I were out and out a fool,
Myself to measure by the rule
With which he 's pleased to measure me;
And next, I 'll die ere I agree
To buy my friend at his own price

Say, haven't I read your riddle, nice ?”
ROSAMOND, May 10, 1860.

Anniversary of my mother's death.

For what our pleasures, and our pains for what,
But occupation till Decay's slow hand,
Assiduous, shall have made sufficient room
Among our foresires' crowded bones for ours?
Full fifteen years ago this very day,
The longest lived of two loved parents died -

Their first born child's place should be nearly ready. ROSAMOND, March 27, 1860.

THE Don, he has bestrode his steed,

His squire, he rides behind him; They 're on the road for Lombardie,

To tilt against a windmill.

Four stout, strong arms the windmill has,

And sets them all in motion,
And round they go, clish-clash, slap-dash,

Against Don Quixote's 'notion'.

“We had best go back," Don Quixote cries;

“This giant is a strong one; How hard he hits about the head!

My 'notion' was a wrong one.”

“Mirror of knighthood! right and wrong

Depend still the event on,"
Quoth Sancho, reining Dapple round;

“Let 's go some other scént on.”

“Not now, not now," the knight replies;

"My lance, see how it's shattered, And, though my spirit 's fresh and strong,

The flesh feels sore and battered."

So home they went, both knight and squire,

Tired, dusty, crowned with glory. The windmill's tórn sails, to this day,

The truth vouch of my story.

Tell you

And Villafranca people still

but they 're mistaken No pair of thieves were ever more

In haste to save their bacon;

And in memorial, fair to see,

Have written on a táll post: “La Mancha's knight and squire slew here

A mighty giant, álmost.” ROSAMOND, March 12, 1860.


WIND, woman and king,
I once heard a fool sing,
Agree in one thing:
Not a jack-straw or hair
For the absent they care,
But throw their arms round
Whoso nearest is found.
And the fool he sang true,
For I have not heard from you
Now for more than a year,
My Mary Anne dear,

And that year seems an ever
And from the king never,

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