And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! Rattle his bones over the stones! He's only a pauper, whom nobody owns! But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, Should make, like the brutes, such a desolate end, Though a pauper, he 's one whom his Maker yet owns! Florence Vane. I LOVED thee long and dearly, My life's bright dream and early I renew in my fond vision My hopes and thy derision, The ruin, lone and hoary, Where thou didst hark my story, That spot, the hues elysian I treasure in my vision, Florence Vane! Thou wast lovelier than the roses In their prime; Thy voice excelled the closes Of sweetest rhyme; Thy heart was as a river Would I had loved thee never, But fairest, coldest wonder! Lieth the green sod under; And it boots not to remember To quicken love's pale ember, The lilies of the valley By young graves weep, The daisies love to dally Where maidens sleep, May their bloom, in beauty vying, Never wane Where thine earthly part is lying, Florence Vane. PHILIP PENDLETON COOKE. The Dule 's i' this Bonnet o' Mine. THE dule 's i' this bonnet o' mine: For Jamie 'll be comin' to-neet; (Aw wur gooin' for wayter to th' well), An' he begged that aw 'd wed him i' May, Bi th' mass, if he'll let me, aw will!. When he took my two honds into his, Good Lord, heaw they trembled between! An' aw durst n't look up in his face, There 's never a mortal con tell Heaw happy aw felt,-for, thae knows, But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung: Though it is n't a thing one should own, Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd thae my mind; For Jamie's as greadly a lad As ever stept eawt into th' sun. Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed; An' mak th' best o' th' job when it 's done!" Eh, dear! but it 's time to be gwon: Aw connut for shame be too soon, An' aw would n't for th' wuld be too late. Aw 'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel: Dost think 'at my bonnet 'll do? "Be off, lass,-thae looks very weel; He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo!" EDWIN WAUGH Abraham Lincoln. FIRST PUBLISHED IN PUNCH. You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face, His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair His garb uncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please; You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity or people's pain, Beside this corpse, that bears for winding-sheet Yes: he had lived to shame me from my sneer, My shallow judgment I had learned to rue, How humble yet how hopeful he could be; Nor bitter in success, nor boastful he, He went about his work, such work as few Ever had laid on head and heart and hand, Man's honest will must Heaven's good grace command; Who trusts the strength will with the burden grow, That God makes instruments to work his will, If but that will we can arrive to know, Nor tamper with the weights of good and ill. So he went forth to battle, on the side That he felt clear was Liberty's and Right's, As in his peasant boyhood he had plied His warfare with rude Nature's thwarting mights— The uncleared forest, the unbroken soil, The iron bark that turns the lumberer's axe, The rapid that o'erbears the boatman's toil, The ambushed Indian, and the prowling bear,— So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill fate, ill feeling, ill report lived through, The taunts to tribute, the abuse to praise, And took both with the same unwavering mood, Till, as he came on light, from darkling days, A felon hand, between the goal and him, Reached from behind his back, a trigger prest, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim, Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest. |