H

THE TWO QUESTIONS.

PINE for the hills-for the lakes-for the

heather;

I fervently long to be somewhere away.

One cannot be growling all day at the weather,

Or getting through ices and claret all day.
By Zeus, if I only could manage to borrow

Of Cook or of Gaze a suggestion or two,
I'd pack up my traps and be off by to-morrow ;-
But where shall I wander, and what shall I do?

The squares of the West are deserted and lonely,
The parks given o'er to estival repose;

And very few Members of Parliament only

Will wait for the Session to crawl to its close.
I sigh for new faces, new people, and places:
I sigh to take wing and fly off, tout à coup,
Too far from this hothouse to leave any traces ;—
But where shall I wander, and what shall I do?

196

THE TWO QUESTIONS.

For walking or driving, or steaming or sailing,
I'm equally ready, as luck may decree;
And equally ready, if need be, for scaling
The casual Alp or the chance Pyrenee.
But how can I settle my plans in a minute,
And how can I fix upon anything new?

I pine for my journey and long to begin it ;—
But where shall I wander, and what shall I do?

遮

SLOWLY, BUT SURELY.

YES where a smile very seldom, if ever is;

Down to the ground in the deepest of reveries
Dropt so demurely-

Speaking as little of love as of merriment,

Still you can wound, and have tried the experiment; Slowly, but surely.

Where there are wounds there are often recoveries, Did you not count how forbearing a lover is

Too prematurely?

Say to your owner, blue eyes, without fretting her, He who adored her may end by forgetting herSlowly, but surely.

"GETTING BROWNER EV'RY DAY."

ROAMED among the meadows in October,
I saw the signs of winter all around.

The skies were growing dull and growing sober;
The traces of a frost were on the ground.
I saw the leaf becoming sere and yellow,
The giant oak beginning to decay :-

I paused awhile to murmur, "Poor old fellow;
Your green is getting browner ev'ry day!"

In boyhood, when my day was only early,
And Life worth all the gold in any mint,
My head of hair-though naturally curly-
Was fiercer than the carrot in its tint.
But later (by the kindly aid of dyeing)
It grew a lovely auburn-in its way:

And people kept perpetually crying,

"Young Green is getting browner ev'ry day!"

"GETTING BROWNER EV'RY DAY."

I traded on the vile dissimulation

Until I left my own, my native land.
One morning a seductive situation
Invited me to India's coral strand;
That climate is a test for one's complexion,
It rendered me as dark as a Malay :
My comrades often uttered the reflection,
"Poor Green is getting browner ev'ry day!"

One hates to be a "sham" when over fifty;
To dye, upon my word, was infra dig.
And people growing old are growing thrifty ;
'Twas cheaper, on the whole, to buy a wig.
Now all my friends ironically taunt me,

They gaze upon my flaxen head and say---
In syllables that ever seem to haunt me—

199

"Why, Green, you're getting browner ev'ry day!'