Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me:
Bitterly weeping I turn'd away:
"Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more
Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.

"Ellen Adair she loved me well,

Against her father's and mother's will:
To-day I sat for an hour and wept,
By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.

66

Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea

Fill'd I was with folly and spite,

When Ellen Adair was dying for me.

"Cruel, cruel the words I said!

Cruelly came they back to-day:

'You're too slight and fickle,' I said,

To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'

"There I put my face in the grass

Whisper'd Listen to my despair:

I repent me of all I did:

Speak a little, Ellen Adair!'

"Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, 'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!'

"Love may come, and love may go,
And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree:
But I will love no more, no more,

Till Ellen Adair come back to me.

"Bitterly wept I over the stone:

Bitterly weeping I turn'd away:

There lies the body of Ellen Adair !

And there the heart of Edward Gray!"

WILL WATERPROOF'S LYRICAL MONOLOGUE.

MADE AT THE COCK.

O PLUMP head-waiter at The Cock,

To which I most resort,

How goes the time?

'Tis five o'clock.

Go fetch a pint of port:

But let it not be such as that

You set before chance-comers,
But such whose father-grape grew fat
On Lusitanian summers.

No vain libation to the Muse,
But may she still be kind,

And whisper lovely words, and use
Her influence on the mind,
To make me write my random rhymes,

Ere they be half-forgotten;

Nor add and alter, many times,
Till all be ripe and rotten.

I pledge her, and she comes and dips
Her laurel in the wine,

And lays it thrice upon my lips,

These favor'd lips of mine;
Until the charm have power to make
New life-blood warm the bosom,
And barren commonplaces break
In full and kindly blossom.

I pledge her silent at the board;
Her gradual fingers steal

And touch upon the master-chord
Of all I felt and feel.

Old wishes, ghosts of broken plans,

And phantom hopes assemble;

And that child's heart within the man's
Begins to move and tremble.

Thro' many an hour of summer suns
By many pleasant ways,

Against its fountain upward runs
The current of my days

I kiss the lips I once have kiss'd;
The gas-light wavers dimmer;
And softly, thro' a vinous mist,

My college friendships glimmer.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense,
Unboding critic-pen,

Or that eternal want of pence,

Which vexes public men,

Who hold their hands to all, and cry

For that which all deny them Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them.

Ah yet, tho' all the world forsake,
Tho' fortune clip my wings,
I will not cramp my heart, nor take
Half-views of men and things.

Let Whig and Tory stir their blood;
There must be stormy weather;
But for some true result of good
All parties work together.

Let there be thistles, there are grapes;
If old things, there are new;

Ten thousand broken lights and shapes,
Yet glimpses of the true.

Let raffs be rife in prose and rhyme,

We lack not rhymes and reasons,

As on this whirligig of Time

We circle with the seasons.

This earth is rich in man and maid;
With fair horizons bound:

This whole wide earth of light and shade
Comes out, a perfect round.
High over roaring Temple-bar,

And, set in Heaven's third story,

I look at all things as they are,
But thro' a kind of glory.

Head-waiter, honor'd by the guest
Half-mused, or reeling ripe,

The pint you brought me was the best
That ever came from pipe.

But tho' the port surpasses praise,

My nerves have dealt with stiffer. Is there some magic in the place? Or do my peptics differ?

For since I came to live and learn,
No pint of white or red

Had ever half the power to turn
This wheel within my head,
Which bears a season'd brain about,
Unsubject to confusion,

Tho' soak'd and saturate, out and out,
Thro' every convolution.

For I am of a numerous house,
With many kinsmen gay,
Where long and largely we carouse
As who shall say me nay:
Each month, a birthday coming on,
We drink defying trouble,

Or sometimes two would meet in one,
And then we drank it double;

Whether the vintage, yet unkept,
Had relish fiery-new,

Or, elbow-deep in sawdust, slept,
As old as Waterloo;

Or stow'd (when classic Canning died)
In musty bins and chambers,

Had cast upon its crusty side

The gloom of ten Decembers.

The Muse, the jolly Muse, it is!
She answer'd to my call,

She changes with that mood or this,
Is all-in-all to all:

She lit the spark within my throat,

To make my blood run quicker, Used all her fiery will, and smote Her life into the liquor.

And hence this halo lives about

The waiter's hands, that reach To each his perfect pint of stout, His proper chop to each.

He looks not like the common breed
That with the napkin dally;

I think he came like Ganymede,
From some delightful valley.

The Cock was of a larger egg
Than modern poultry drop,
Stept forward on a firmer leg,

And cramm'd a plumper crop;
Upon an ampler dunghill trod,
Crow'd lustier late and early,
Sipt wine from silver, praising God,
And raked in golden barley.

A private life was all his joy,
Till in a court he saw
A something-pottle-bodied boy,

That knuckled at the taw:

He stoop'd and clutch'd him, fair and good, Flew over roof and casement:

His brothers of the weather stood

Stock-still for sheer amazement.

But he, by farmstead, thorpe and spire,
And follow'd with acclaims,

A sign to many a staring shire,

Came crowing over Thames.

Right down by smoky Paul's they bore,
Till, where the street grows straiter,
One fix'd forever at the door,

And one became head-waiter.

But whither would my fancy go
How out of place she makes
The violet of a legend blow
Among the chops and steaks!

"T is but a steward of the can,

?

One shade more plump than common;

As just and mere a serving-man

As any, born of woman.

I ranged too high: what draws me down Into the common day?

Is it the weight of that half-crown,

Which I shall have to pay?