Ale-glasses and jugs, And rummers and mugs, And sand on the floor, without carpets or rugs, Cold fowl and cigars, Pickled onions in jars, Welsh rabbits and kidneys-rare work for the jaws!— And Lieutenant Tregooze, And there is Sir Carnaby Jenks, of the Blues, The clock strikes One! Supper is done, And Sir Carnaby Jenks is full of his fun, Is drinking gin-toddy, And laughing at every thing, and every body. The clock strikes Two! and the clock strikes Three! "Who so merry, so merry as we?" Save Captain M'Fuze, Who is taking a snooze, While Sir Carnaby Jenks is busy at work, The clock strikes Four!— Round the debtors' door Are gather'd a couple of thousand or more; As many await At the press-yard gate, Till slowly its folding doors open, and straight The clock strikes Five! The Sheriffs arrive, And the crowd is so great that the street seems alive; But Sir Carnaby Jenks Blinks, and winks, A candle burns down in the socket, and sinks. Is dreaming of Jews, And acceptances all the bill-brokers refuse; Has drunk all his toddy, And just as the dawn is beginning to peep, Sweetly, oh! sweetly, the morning breaks, Like the first faint blush on a maiden's cheeks; On all save the wretch condemn'd to die! As that which its course has now begun, Should rise on such a scene of misery! Should gild with rays so light and free And hark!-a sound comes, big with fate; The clock from St. Sepulchre's tower strikes-Eight! It is tolling, alas! a living man's knell! They come HE steps that threshold o'er That pale wan man's mute agony, — Now bent on the crowd, now turned to the sky, Again that clock! 'tis time, 'tis time! Nine! -'twas the last concluding stroke! And then-my Lord Tomnoddy awoke! And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose, Here's a rum Go! Why, Captain!-my Lord!—Here's the devil to pay! The fellow's been cut down and taken away! What's to be done? We've miss'd all the fun! Why, they'll laugh at and quiz us all over the town: We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!" What was to be done?-'twas perfectly plain That they could not well hang the man over again : What was to be done? - The man was dead! Nought could be done!-nought could be said; So my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed! THE following communication will speak for itself: "On their own actions modest men are dumb!" 24 A DEAD ROSE. BY ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. O ROSE! who dares to name thee?... No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet; But pale, and hard, and dry as stubble-wheat, Kept seven years in a drawer-thy titles shame thee. The breeze that used to blow thee Between the hedge-row thorns, and take away If breathing now--unsweeten'd would forego thee. The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, Till beam appear'd to bloom and flower to burn, If shining now-with not a hue would light thee. The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grew incarnadined, because If dropping now--would darken where it met thee. The fly that lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leaf's pure edges after heat, If lighting now-would coldly overrun thee. |