An Old Cynic

IS Cupid quite the rosy god

That poets try to make him out?

I've known him two-score years and odd,

And, frankly, I begin to doubt.

He has his prizes, I have heard;

I know he has his blanks as well:

In fact, I think, upon my word,

Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!

Is PLUTUS quite the hero-king

That money-worms would have us think?

And is there, truly, anything

Of music in the metal's clink?

Perhaps you have a heart and brain,

And have a heart and brain to sell!

If not--I think 'tis pretty plain

Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!

Is Bacchus quite the handsome rake--

The gay and fascinating youth--

That poets paint him when they take

Poetic licences with truth?

When fever'd pulses come with day,

And headaches at your breakfast-bell,

I rather fancy that you 'll say,

Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!

And is Apollo quite so kind

As people say, to all his sons?

I think that now and then you 'll find

He rather starves his younger ones.

To play the lyre is pretty hard;

It's harder still to play it well.

Depend upon it, brother bard,

Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!

Of course you can afford to burn

A rushlight, if the stakes be large;

(And when you look for some return

In money for your rushlight's charge.)

But will you lose or will you gain?

That's somewhat difficult to tell;

And, if you lose, it's very plain

Le jeu ne vaut pas la chandelle!

THE NIGHTINGALE.

T was the love-lorn PHILOMEL--

The sweetest bird that sings;

And o'er my spirit came the spell

That all sad music flings.

Then--fashioning to tender words

That wordless fairy-tale--

"Sing on," I cried, "oh, bird of

birds,

Melodious Nightingale!"

Her sorrow pierced me through

and through;

And, though the village-chime

A while ago had stricken two,

I took no note of time.

But somehow, ere the clock told three,

I felt my ardour fail;

For sleep came fighting hard in me

Against the Nightingale.

An hour I lay and listen'd still

To that ecstatic voice,

(Net working out my own sweet will,

But Mr Hobson's choice.)

"This melancholy strain," said I,

"Is very like a wail!"

Eftsoons I raised a bitter cry

Of "Hang the Nightingale!"

The village-clock had sped its round,

The village-clock struck five,

And still I found my sense of sound

Remorselessly alive.

I knew my efforts at repose

Would be of small avail,

Unless I rose and donn'd my hose,

And slew the Nightingale.

No way but one. I had a gun

With which, in former years,

Great execution I had done

Amongst the Volunteers;

And, while a friendly moonbeam

And lighted hill and dale,

I loaded--took a deadly aim--

And--exit Nightingale!

TO MY BRAIN.