The Humorous Poetry of the English Language | Page 9

lip thus I seal your degree,
My divine little Mistress of Arts!
YOUNG JESSICA.
THOMAS MOORE.
Young Jessica sat all the day,
In love-dreams languishingly pining,

Her needle bright neglected lay,
Like truant genius idly shining.

Jessy, 'tis in idle hearts
That love and mischief are most nimble;

The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid, is Minerva's thimble.
A child who with a magnet play'd,
And knew its winning ways so
wily,
The magnet near the needle laid,
And laughing, said, "We'll
steal it slily."
The needle, having naught to do,
Was pleased to let

the magnet wheedle,
Till closer still the tempter drew,
And off, at
length, eloped the needle.
Now, had this needle turn'd its eye
To some gay reticule's
construction,
It ne'er had stray'd from duty's tie,
Nor felt a magnet's
sly seduction.
Girls would you keep tranquil hearts,
Your snowy
fingers must be nimble;
The safest shield against the darts
Of Cupid,
is Minerva's thimble.
RINGS AND SEALS.
THOMAS MOORE.
"Go!" said the angry weeping maid,
"The charm is broken!--once
betray'd,
Oh! never can my heart rely
On word or look, on oath or
sigh.
Take back the gifts, so sweetly given,
With promis'd faith and
vows to heaven;
That little ring, which, night and morn,
With
wedded truth my hand hath worn;
That seal which oft, in moments
blest,
Thou hast upon my lip imprest,
And sworn its dewy spring
should be
A fountain seal'd for only thee!
Take, take them back, the
gift and vow,
All sullied, lost, and hateful, now!"
I took the ring--the seal I took,
While oh! her every tear and look

Were such as angels look and shed,
When man is by the world misled!

Gently I whisper'd, "FANNY, dear!
Not half thy lover's gifts are
here:
Say, where are all the seals he gave
To every ringlet's jetty
wave,
And where is every one he printed
Upon that lip, so
ruby-tinted--
Seals of the purest gem of bliss,
Oh! richer, softer, far
than this!
"And then the ring--my love! recall
How many rings, delicious all,

His arms around that neck hath twisted,
Twining warmer far than this
did!
Where are they all, so sweet, so many?

Oh! dearest, give back
all, if any!"

While thus I murmur'd, trembling too
Lest all the nymph had vow'd
was true,
I saw a smile relenting rise
'Mid the moist azure of her
eyes.
Like day-light o'er a sea of blue,
While yet the air is dim with
dew!
She let her cheek repose on mine,
She let my arms around her
twine--
Oh! who can tell the bliss one feels
In thus exchanging
rings and seals!
NETS AND CAGES.
THOMAS MOORE.
Come, listen to my story, while
Your needle's task you ply;
At what
I sing some maids will smile,
While some, perhaps, may sigh.

Though Love's the theme, and Wisdom blames
Such florid songs as
ours,
Yet Truth, sometimes, like eastern dames,
Can speak her
thoughts by flowers.
Then listen, maids, come listen, while
Your
needle's task you ply;
At what I sing there's some may smile,
While
some, perhaps, will sigh.
Young Cloe, bent on catching Loves,

Such nets had learn'd to frame,
That none, in all our vales and groves,

Ere caught so much small game:
While gentle Sue, less given to
roam,
When Cloe's nets were taking
These flights of birds, sat still
at home,
One small, neat Love-cage making.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Much Cloe laugh'd at Susan's task;
But mark how things went on:

These light-caught Loves, ere you could ask
Their name and age,
were gone!
So weak poor Cloe's nets were wove,
That, though she
charm'd into them
New game each hour, the youngest Love
Was
able to break through them.
Come, listen, maids, etc.
Meanwhile, young Sue, whose cage was wrought
Of bars too strong
to sever,
One love with golden pinions caught,

And caged him there

forever;
Instructing thereby, all coquettes,
Whate'er their looks or
ages,
That, though 'tis pleasant weaving Nets,
'Tis wiser to make
Cages.
Thus, maidens, thus do I beguile
The task your fingers ply--

May all who hear, like Susan smile,
Ah! not like Cloe sigh!
SALAD.
SYDNEY SMITH.
To make this condiment, your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two
hard-boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen-sieve,

Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk
within the bowl,
And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
Of
mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites
so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a
double quantity of salt.
And, lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss

A magic soup-spoon of anchovy sauce.
Oh, green and glorious! Oh,
herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to
the world he'd turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the
salad bowl!
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
Fate can not harm
me, I have dined to-day!
MY LETTERS.
R. HARRIS BARHAM.
"Litera scripta manet."--Old Saw.
Another mizzling, drizzling day!
Of clearing up there's no appearance;

So I'll sit down without delay,
And here, at least, I'll make a
clearance!
Oh ne'er "on such a day as this,"
Would Dido with her woes
oppressed
Have woo'd AEneas back to bliss,
Or Trolius gone to
hunt for Cressid!

No, they'd have stay'd at home, like me,
And popp'd their toes upon
the fender,
And drank a quiet cup of tea:
On days like this one can't
be tender.
So, Molly, draw that basket nigher,
And