BY THE MERE.
____
DOWN where trim meadows softly sweep,
To view their shadows in the water,
Where many meek-eyed daisies peep
To welcome May—sad April's daughter—
I linger, silent and alone,
The evening shades around me stealing,
Here by this well-known trysting stone.
Dim secrets to myself revealing.
At noon I left the weary town.
All clad in holiday array;
In merry mood I've wandered down
Where sweetly blow the flowers of May.
At a quaint little country inn
I ordered tea and drank my sherry;
Then memories stirring me within,
At times I felt both sad and merry.
While thus in philosophic mood
The past and present slowly weaving,
I mused on things of hoped-for good—
On things stored up for future grieving:
On life and love, and foolish days
When life was love, and love meant living:
Oft smiling when, as through a haze,
I pictured all my sad misgiving.
You know those happy afternoons
So long ago—so long ago—
The winds went singing pleasant tunes
As we were wandering sweetly slow;
A clerk on eighty pounds a-year—
A noble-born and scornful beauty—
I full of purposes unclear—
You, eloquent on wealth and duty.
Do you forget, across the Mere
We rowed, and watched our own dear shadows
Reflected in the water clear,
With skies, and larks, and daisied meadows?
And when they moved as moved the stream.
Behold, they seemed to twine together;
We whispering, as in a dream—
So we, through calm and stormy weather.
Westward the glow began to wane.
The happy moon rose high and higher;
Arm-linked we wandered down the lane,
My heart filled with a secret fire.
Here on this spot where now I stand
We said "Good-bye:" with tender pity
You went along — a merry band—
I caught the last train to the city.
Poet-like I wrote some verses fine—
'Twere fitting I your charms should number—
Entranced, I deemed them half-divine—
Last week I found them 'mid some lumber.
No doubt you're quite as fair as then,
Your eyes as blue, your face as pretty,
Although I do not care to pen
Rose-coloured sonnets, wise and witty.
We met again where shells and sands
Await the glad embrace of ocean.
We smiled and bowed; then, shaking hands.
Passed on amid the crowd's commotion;—
That's years ago: in last week's Times
I saw your wedding duly posted
I told my wife, who read the rhymes,
I wrote for you when "your devoted."
Well, let us keep a noble name,
Each in the place ordained by duty:
I, slowly working up to fame;
You, as a famous country beauty;
You, free from envy, care, and strife.
Smiling around each peasant's cottage;
I, with my little ones and wife,
Contented with our humble pottage.
FLOATING A FINANCE.[1]
By Litchfield Moseley.
IT was the 10th of April, '64.
"Nobbles, I want you to do me a favour," said Smasher, as I was sitting in a grim city chop-house, disposing of some unknown animal fibre and vegetables.
Smasher was a genius who lived on his wits, and didn't fatten. He had been a clerk, a soldier, a policeman, an omnibus time-keeper, a reporter, a sheriff's officer's assistant, a checktaker at a cheap theatre, a supernumerary at ditto, a temperance lecturer, a brewer's collector, the outside agent of a photographer in the New Cut, and a bounding Bedouin of Bessarabia at Astley's.
"Well! what is it?"
"Nothing particular. I want your name to a bill for fifty pounds, that's all."
"Oh! that's all. Smasher, have you been drinking, or are you mad?"
"Neither. Don't be alarmed; I'll explain all directly. Eating—eh? Lucky fellow! It's well to be you. Now, if you were a Christian you'd say, 'Sit down, eat, drink, and be happy.'"
Acting on this hint I gave the order, and Smasher was soon deep in roast mutton and onion sauce.
"I have a scheme," he said, "that will make my fortune. Nobbles, I am going to float a Finance Company!"
"A Finance Company?"
"Ah! you may laugh, but it's an easy thing to do; the public mind is ripe for speculation, and they'll swallow anything. All I want is a little money. I've prepared everything: obtained directors, bankers, auditors, and solicitors; picked up a needy M.P. to act as chairman—terms, two guineas a time and sherry; and an Honourable— who was kicked out of an Irish regiment for swindling—at half the price. He's outside now, and wants a dinner as badly as I do."
I wouldn't take the hint, thinking if I did I should probably have to pay for a meal for all the directors.
- ↑ As read by Mr. J. M. Bellew.
