How the beaux cried with jealousy, "Jove! what a buck!"
As they glared at the fortunate swain,
And the wand which appeared to have fetched him his luck--
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
It could tell of the rides in the grand yellow gig,
When, from under a broad scuttle hat,
The eyes of fair Polly were lustrous and big,
And--but no! would it dare tell of _that_?
Ah me! by those wiles that bespoke the coquette
How many a suitor was slain!
There was one, though, who conquered the foe when they met
With the gleam of his gold-headed cane.
Oh, the odors of lavender, lilac, and musk!
They scent these old halls even yet;
I can still see the dancers as down through the dusk
They glide in the grave minuet.
The small satin slippers, my grandmamma's pride,
Long, long in the chest have they lain;
Let us shake out the camphor and place them beside
My grandfather's gold-headed cane.
FREDERIC LAWRENCE KNOWLES.
_Wesleyan Literary Monthly._
~Hours.~
Matchless, melting eyes of brown,
This is but a cheerless town;
You should beam 'neath warmer skies,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Yours should be a land of flowers,
Perfumed air and sunny hours;
Eastern fires within you rise,
Matchless, melting, dark brown eyes.
Eyes of beauty, eyes of light,
Burning mystically bright,
Prithee here no longer stay,
You will burn my heart away.
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