The Husband'S Petition

Comehither, my heart's darling, Come, sit upon my knee, And listen, while I whisper A boon I ask of thee.

You need not pull my whiskers So amorously, my dove; 'Tis something quite apart from The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving-- A dark and deep desire, That glows beneath my bosom Like coals of kindled fire.

The passion of the nightingale, When singing to the rose, Isfeebler than the agony That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me, Though madly thus I speak-- I feel thy arms about me, Thy tresses on my cheek:

I know the sweet devotion That links thy heart with mine,-- I know my soul's emotion Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow Hath fallen across my love: No, sweet, my love is shadowless, As yonder heaven above.

These little taper fingers-- Ah, Jane! how white they be!-- Can well supply the cruel want That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me My first and fond request; I pray thee, by the memory Of all we cherish best--

By all the dear remembrance Of those delicious days, When, hand in hand, we wandered Along the summer braes;

Byall we felt, unspoken, When 'neath the early moon, We sat beside the rivulet, In the leafy month of June;

And by the broken whisper That fell upon my ear, More sweet than angel music, When first I wooed thee, dear!

By thy great vow which bound thee For ever to my side, And by the ring that made thee My darling and my bride!

Thou wilt not fail nor falter, But bend thee to the task-- A BOILED SHEEP'S-HEAD ON SUNDAY Is all the boon I ask!

SONNET TO BRITAIN.

Halt!Shoulder arms! Recover As you were! Right wheel! Eyes left! Attention! Stand at ease!

O Britain! O my country! Words like these Have made thy name a terror and a fear To all the nations. Witness Ebro's banks, Assaÿe, Toulouse, Nivelle, and Waterloo, Where the grim despot muttered--Sauve qui peut! And Ney fled darkling.--Silence in the ranks!

Inspiredby these, amidst the iron crash Of armies, in the centre of his troop The soldier stands--unmovable, not rash-- Until the forces of the foeman droop; Then knocks the Frenchman to eternal smash, Pounding them into mummy. Shoulder, hoop!

THE END.