"'Twas his third voyage. That's the box he brought, Or would have brought-my poor deserted boy! And these the words the agents sent -they thought That money, perhaps, could make my loss a joy. "Look, sir, I've something here that I prize more : This is a fragment of the poor lad's coat,— That other clutched him as the wave went o'er, And this stayed in his hand. That's what they wrote. "Well, well, 'tis done. My story's shocking you ; Grief is for them that have both time and wealth: We can't mourn much, who have much work to do ; Your fire is bright Thank God, I have my health!" BEFORE THE CURTAIN "MISS PEACOCK's called.” demurs ? Not I who write, for certain ; That some such face as fresh as hers And yet, most strange to say, I find The pleased young premier led her on, And who Where is "Sir Lumley Leycester, Bart."? Where is the cool Detective,-he The men who worked the cataract? Think what a crowd whom none recall, Women for whom no bouquets fall, Ah, Reader, ere you turn the page, A NIGHTINGALE IN KENSINGTON THE GARDENS HEY paused,-the cripple in the chair, The mother with her lines of care; The noisy, red-cheeked nursery-maid, If possible, the small, dusk bird That from the almond bough, Had poured the joyous chant they heard, So suddenly, but now. And one poor POET stopped and thought How many a lonely lay That bird had sung ere fortune brought It near the common way, |