For he lays before her glist'ning eyes
Vast piles of shining gold which lies,
In rich profusion at her feet,
Where he has taken lowly seat.

All-all, my darling, to be thine

If only thou wilt be but mine!'

Cried he with fervour and delight,

While love made his dim eyes grow bright.

His grizzly beard, and scanty hair
Had seen full many a passing year,
Old age had touched him on the shoulder,
But that was naught, since oft he told her,

That without doubt all he possessed
Should sure be hers, if he were blest

With her as his own darling wife,

Tho' albeit his span of life,

Was somewhat narrow and confined,

But wealth and love, these two combined, Would cover any want so small,

As that of youth, which after all,

Is merely an imagination

Compared to money and high station. What woman would such good refuse! 'Twere tempting Fate such luck to lose!

And so the maid was quite convinced, The matter now no longer minced, Accepted him who thus had wooed her, And took the money and the suitor.

Her lot since then, I dare not say;
I only know that every day
She wishes either she, or he,
Were gone to bliss eternally.

A LETTER

(WRITTEN IN A DRAUGHTY ROOM)

WITHOUT the snow lies on the ground; Within the wind doth play

Upon my back, and all around

(Thou know'st its little way).

My fingers stiffen as I write

In this too airy place,

For sundry draughts now take their flight,

And rise from feet to face.

They settle on my shoulders chill;

They run adown my spine,

Ah, how can I this letter fill

Or make another sign?

Thou know'st full well the truth of this,

For often thou didst swear,

When zephyrs bold thy cheek would kiss,

And take thee unaware.

And then, perchance, an ugly sneeze,
Would screw thy visage fair,

And almost bring thee on thy knees;
(A posture now so rare.)

Now write me, write me, son of mine,

The pages long and sweet, And let each goodly, newsy line

Be ample, full, complete.

The overflowing measure mete

Beyond what thou dost owe;

Then I'll peruse each covered sheet,
Recounting how things go.

Skimp not the herald mute, that speaks

Of all that comes to thee;

That tells the doings of past weeks

So truthfully to me.

And when thou sittest down to think

In calm and quiet mood,

Just take the handy pen and ink,
And chronicle what's good.

And on the virgin paper pour
The fruit of thoughtful mind;
Something that we may ponder o'er,
With sense and love combined.

The utterance of the soul is thus
Embalmed, and ever near,

It is thyself who speaks to us,

Although no longer here.