The Season’s over; for relief
    You’re off to scale the Alps;
  Say, do you, like some Indian Chief,
    Look back and count your scalps? 
  Does someone rue your broken vows,
    And sigh he has to doubt you;
  Yet felt withal the week at Cowes
    Was quite a blank without you?

  Are hearts still broken, as of old,
    In this prosaic time,
  When love is only given for gold,
    And poverty’s a crime. 
  Say, are you conscious of a heart,
    And can you feel it beating;
  And is it ever sad to part,
    And finds a joy in meeting?

  The Seasons come, the Seasons go,
    With store of good and ill;
  Do all men find you cold as snow,
    And unresponsive still? 
  O beautiful enigma, say,
    Will love’s sublime persistence
  Solve for you, in the usual way,
    The riddle of existence?

  Alas! love is not love to-day,
    But just a bargain made,
  In cold and calculating way;
    And if the price be paid,
  A man may win the fairest face,
    A maiden tall and queenly,
  The daughter of some ancient race,
    Who sells herself serenely.

  What wonder that the cynic sneers
    At such a rule of life;
  That, after but a few short years,
    Dissension should be rife. 
  Ah!  Lady, you’ll avoid heart-ache,
    And scorn of bard satiric,
  If haply you should deign to take
    A lesson from our lyric.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  IMITATION THE SINCEREST FLATTERY.

(Effects of a Long Session in the House.)]

* * * * *

JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.

BORN, FEBRUARY 21, 1801.  DIED AUGUST 11, 1890.

  “Lead, kindly Light!” From lips serene as strong,
    Chaste as melodious, on world-weary ears
    Fall, ’midst earth’s chaos wild of hopes and fears,
  The accents calm of spiritual song,
  Striking across the tumult of the throng
    Like the still line of lustre, soft, severe,
    From the high-riding, ocean-swaying sphere,
  Athwart the wandering wilderness of waves. 
  Is there not human soul-light which so laves
    Earth’s lesser spirits with its chastening beam,
    That passion’s bale-fire and the lurid gleam
  Of sordid selfishness know strange eclipse? 
  Such purging lustre his, whose eloquent lips
    Lie silent now.  Great soul, great Englishman! 
    Whom narrowing bounds of creed, or caste, or clan,
  Exclude not from world-praise and all men’s love. 
    Fine spirit, which the strain of ardent strife
  Warped not from its firm poise, or made to move
    From the pure pathways of the Saintly Life!