No More Learning

There is no rest--in Venice, on
The Bridge of Sighs! " she quoted low
From Byron and from Tennyson.

I need not tell of soup and fish
In solemn silence swallowed,
The sobs that ushered in each dish,
And its departure followed,
Nor yet my suicidal wish
To _be_ the cheese I hollowed.

Some desperate attempts were made
To start a conversation;
"Madam," the sportive Brown essayed,
"Which kind of recreation,
Hunting or fishing, have you made
Your special occupation? "

Her lips curved downwards instantly,
As if of india-rubber.
"Hounds _in full cry_ I like," said she:
(Oh how I longed to snub her! )
"Of fish, a whale's the one for me,
_It is so full of blubber_! "

The night's performance was "King John. "
"It's dull," she wept, "and so-so! "
A while I let her tears flow on,
She said they soothed her woe so!
At length the curtain rose upon
'Bombastes Furioso. '

In vain we roared; in vain we tried
To rouse her into laughter:
Her pensive glances wandered wide
From orchestra to rafter--
"_Tier upon tier! _" she said, and sighed;
And silence followed after.

[Illustration]




A VALENTINE.

[Sent to a friend who had complained that I was glad enough to see him
when he came, but didn't seem to miss him if he stayed away.
]


And cannot pleasures, while they last,
Be actual unless, when past,
They leave us shuddering and aghast,
With anguish smarting?
And cannot friends be firm and fast,
And yet bear parting?

And must I then, at Friendship's call,
Calmly resign the little all
(Trifling, I grant, it is and small)
I have of gladness,
And lend my being to the thrall
Of gloom and sadness?

And think you that I should be dumb,
And full _dolorum omnium_,
Excepting when _you_ choose to come
And share my dinner?
At other times be sour and glum
And daily thinner?

Must he then only live to weep,
Who'd prove his friendship true and deep?
By day a lonely shadow creep,
At night-time languish,
Oft raising in his broken sleep
The moan of anguish?

The lover, if for certain days
His fair one be denied his gaze,
Sinks not in grief and wild amaze,
But, wiser wooer,
He spends the time in writing lays,
And posts them to her.

And if the verse flow free and fast,
Till even the poet is aghast,
A touching Valentine at last
The post shall carry,
When thirteen days are gone and past
Of February.

Farewell, dear friend, and when we meet,
In desert waste or crowded street,
Perhaps before this week shall fleet,
Perhaps to-morrow,
I trust to find _your_ heart the seat
Of wasting sorrow.




THE THREE VOICES.


The First Voice.

[Illustration]

He trilled a carol fresh and free:
He laughed aloud for very glee:
There came a breeze from off the sea:

It passed athwart the glooming flat--
It fanned his forehead as he sat--
It lightly bore away his hat,

All to the feet of one who stood
Like maid enchanted in a wood,
Frowning as darkly as she could.

With huge umbrella, lank and brown,
Unerringly she pinned it down,
Right through the centre of the crown.

Then, with an aspect cold and grim,
Regardless of its battered rim,
She took it up and gave it him.

A while like one in dreams he stood,
Then faltered forth his gratitude
In words just short of being rude:

For it had lost its shape and shine,
And it had cost him four-and-nine,
And he was going out to dine.