Love can say much, yet not a word be spoken.
Straight, as a wasp careering staid to sip
The dewy rose she held, the gardener's token,
He, seizing on her hand, with hasty grip,
The stem sway'd earthward with its blossom, broken.
The gardener raised her hand unto his lip,
And kiss'd it--when a rough voice, hoarse with halloas,
Cried, "Harkye' fellow! I'll permit no followers!"
* * * * *
SONGS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL.--No. 11
The lists were made--the trumpet's blast
Rang pealing through the air.
My 'squire made lace and rivet fast
And brought my tried _destrerre_.
I rode where sat fair Isidore
Inez Mathilde Borghese;
From spur to crest she scann'd me o'er,
Then said "He's not the cheese!"
O, Mary mother! how burn'd my cheek!
I proudly rode away;
And vow'd "Woe's his I who dares to break
A lance with me to-day!"
I won the prize! (Revenge is sweet,
I thought me of a _ruse_;)
I laid it at her rival's feet,
And thus I cook'd her goose.
* * * * *
SIBTHORP'S CORNER.
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