MADAME LA MARQUISE.

As I bend o'er her bosom to tell her the news,

The faint scent of her hair, the approach of her

cheek,

The vague warmth of her breath, all my senses

suffuse

With HERSELF; and I tremble to speak.

So she sits in the curtained luxurious light

Of that room with its porcelain, and pictures,

and flowers,

When the dark day's half done, and the snow flutters

white

Past the windows in feathery showers.

All without is so cold,-'neath the low, leaden sky!

Down the bald empty street, like a ghost, the

gendarme

Stalks surly; a distant carriage hums by ;-

All within is so bright and so warm!

MADAME LA MARQUISE

But she drives after noon;-then's the time to

behold her,

With her fair face, half hid, like a ripe peeping

rose,

'Neath the veil,-o'er the velvets and furs which en

fold her,

Leaning back with a queenly repose.

As she glides up the sunlight, you'd say she was made

To loll back in a carriage all day with a smile; And at dusk, on a sofa, to lean in the shade

Of soft lamps, and be wooed for a while.

Could we find out her heart through that velvet and lace!

Can it beat without ruffling her sumptuous dress? She will show us her shoulder, her bosom, her face;

But what the heart's like, we must guess.

IRISH EYES.

With live women and men to be found in the

world

(Live with sorrow and sin-live with pain and

with passion)

Who could live with a doll, though its locks should

be curled,

And its petticoats trimmed in the fashion?

'Tis so fair! Would my bite, if I bit it, draw blood? Will it cry if I hurt it? or scold if I kiss?

Is it made, with its beauty, of wax or of wood ?

Is it worth while to guess at all this?

IRISH EYES.

Through your lashes dark, and prove me

In my worship, oh how wise!

Other orbs, be content!

In your honor, not dispraisal-
Most I prize

Irish eyes,

Since were not your ebon, hazel,

Violet-all to light them lent?

Then no mischief, merry eyes!

Stars of thought, no jealous fancies

Can I err

To prefer

This sweet union of your glances,

Sparkling, darkling Irish eyes?

A. PERCEVAL GRAVES.

325

And oh she flouts me, she flouts me!

And spurns, and scorns, and scouts me! Though I drop on my knees, and sue for grace, And beg and beseech, with the saddest face,

Stil ever the same she doubts me.

She is seven by the calendar,

A lily's almost as tall;

But oh! this little lady's by far

The proudest lady of all!

It's her sport and pleasure to flout me!

Το spurn and scorn and scout me!

But ah! I've a notion it's naught but play,