I know my chief's distrust and hate.
He says I'm lazy, and I shirk.
Ah! had I genius like the late

Right Honorable Edmund Burke !
My chance of all promotion's gone,
I know it is, he hates me so.
What is it makes my blood to run,
And all my heart to swell and glow?

Why, why is all so bright and gay?
There is no change, there is no cause;
My office-time I found to-day

Disgusting as it ever was.

At three, I went and tried the Clubs,

And yawned and saunter'd to and fro;
And now my heart jumps up and throbs,
And all my soul is in a glow.

At half-past four I had the cab;
I drove as hard as I could go.
The London sky was dirty drab,
And dirty brown the London snow.
And as I rattled in a cant-

er down by dear old Bolton Row,

A something made my heart to pant,

And caused my cheek to flush and glow.

What could it be that made me find

Old Jawkins pleasant at the Club? Why was it that I laughed and grinned At whist, although I lost the rub? What was it made me drink like mad Thirteen small glasses of Curaço ? That made my inmost heart so glad, And every fibre thrill and glow?

She's home again! she's home, she's home!
Away all cares and grief and pain;

I knew she would-she's back from Rome;
She's home again! she's home again!
"The family's gone abroad," they said,
September last-they told me so;
Since then my lonely heart is dead,

My blood I think's forgot to flow.

She's home again! away all care!

O fairest form the world can show!
O beaming eyes! O golden hair!

O tender voice, that breathes so low!
O gentlest, softest, purest heart!

O joy, O hope!" My tiger, ho!"
Fitz-Clarence said; we saw him start-
He galloped down to Bolton Row.

THE GHAZUL, OR ORIENTAL LOVE-SONG.

THE ROCKS.

I was a timid little antelope ;

My home was in the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I saw the hunters scouring on the plain;
I lived among the rocks, the lonely rocks.

I was a-thirsty in the summer-heat;

I ventured to the tents beneath the rocks.

Zuleikah brought me water from the well;
Since then I have been faithless to the rocks

I saw her face reflected in the well;
Her camels since have marched into the rocks.

I long to see her image in the well;
I only see my eyes, my own sad eyes.
My mother is alone among the rocks.

THE MERRY BARD.

ZULEIKAH! The young Agas in the bazaar are slim-waisted

and wear yellow slippers. I am old and hideous.

One of my eyes

is out, and the hairs of my beard are mostly gray.

Allah! I am a merry bard.

Praise be to

There is a bird upon the terrace of the Emir's chief wife. Praise be to Allah! He has emeralds on his neck, and a ruby tail. I I am a merry bard. He deafens me with his diabolical screaming.

There is a little brown bird in the basket-maker's cage. Praise be to Allah! He ravishes my soul in the moonlight. I am a merry bard.

The peacock is an Aga, but the little bird is a Bulbul,

I am a little brown Bulbul. Come and listen in the moonlight Praise be to Allah! I am a merry bard.

THE CAÏQUE.

YONDER to the kiosk, beside the creek,

Paddle the swift caïque.

Thou brawny oarsman with the sun-burnt cheek,

Quick! for it soothes my heart to hear the Bulbul speak.

Ferry me quickly to the Asian shores,

Swift bending to your oars.

Beneath the melancholy sycamores,

Hark! what a ravishing note the love-lorn Bulbul pours.

Behold! the boughs seem quivering with delight,
The stars themselves more bright,

As mid the waving branches out of sight

The Lover of the Rose sits singing through the night.

"How comes," I said, "such music to his bill?
Tell me for whom he sings so beautiful a trill."

"Once I was dumb," then did the Bird disclose,
"But looked upon the Rose;

And in the garden where the loved one grows,
I straightway did begin sweet music to compose."

"O bird of song, there's one in this caïque

The Rose would also seek,

So he might learn like you to love and speak."

Then answered me the bird of dusky beak,

The Rose, the Rose of Love blushes on Leilah's cheek."

Sitt'st sad beneath the acacia bough,

Where pearl's on neck, and wreath on brow,
I stand, my Nora!

Mid carcanet and coronet,

Where joy-lamps shine and flowers are set

Where England's chivalry are met,

Behold me, Nora!

In this strange scene of revelry,
Amidst this gorgeous chivalry,
A form I saw was like to thee,

My love-my Nora!

She paused amidst her converse glad;
The lady saw that I was sad,

She pitied the poor lonely lad,

Dost love her, Nora?

In sooth, she is a lovely dame,

A lip of red, and eye of flame,

And clustering golden locks, the same

As thine, dear Nora!

Her glance is softer than the dawn's,
Her foot is lighter than the fawn's,
Her breast is whiter than the swan's,
Or thine, my Nora!

Oh, gentle breast to pity me!

Oh, lovely Ladye Emily!

Till death-till death I'll think of thee

Of thee and Nora!

TO MARY.

I SEEM, in the midst of the crowd,
The lightest of all;

My laughter rings cheery and loud,
In banquet and ball.

My lip hath its smiles and its sneers,

For all men to see;

But my soul, and my truth, and my tears, Are for thee, are for thee!

Around me they flatter and fawn

The young and the old,

The fairest are ready to pawn

Their hearts for my gold.
They sue me— —I laugh as I spurn

The slaves at my knee;

But in faith and in fondness I turn
Unto thee, unto thee!

SERENADE.

Now the toils of day are over,
And the sun hath sunk to rest,

Seeking, like a fiery lover,

The bosom of the blushing west—