Sometimes they turned aside to bless
    Some Muse and her wild numbers,
  Or breathe a dream of holiness
    On Beauty’s quiet slumbers;
  “Fly on,” said Wisdom, with cold sneers: 
    “I teach my friends to doubt you;”
  “Come back,” said Age, with bitter tears,
    “My heart is cold without you.”

  When Poverty beset their path,
    And threatened to divide them,
  They coaxed away the beldame’s wrath,
    Ere she had breath to chide them,
  By vowing all her rags were silk,
    And all her bitters, honey,
  And showing taste for bread and milk,
    And utter scorn of money.

  They met stern Danger in their way,
    Upon a ruin seated;
  Before him kings had quaked that day,
    And armies had retreated: 
  But he was robed in such a cloud,
    As Love and Hope came near him,
  That though he thundered long and loud,
    They did not see or hear him.

  A gray-beard joined them, Time by name;
    And Love was nearly crazy,
  To find that he was very lame,
    And also very lazy: 
  Hope, as he listened to her tale,
    Tied wings upon his jacket;
  And then they far outran the mail,
    And far outsailed the packet.

  And so, when they had safely passed
    O’er many a land and billow,
  Before a grave they stopped at last,
    Beneath a weeping willow: 
  The moon upon the humble mound
    Her softest light was flinging;
Sad nightingales were singing.

  “I leave you here,” quoth Father Time,
    As hoarse as any raven;
  And Love kneeled down to spell the rhyme
    Upon the rude stone graven: 
  But Hope looked onward, calmly brave;
    And whispered, “Dearest brother,
  We’re parted on this side the grave,—­
    We’ll meet upon the other.”

* * * * *

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

LADY ARABELLA FUSTIAN TO LORD CLARENCE FUSTIAN.

  —­Sweet, when Actors first appear
  The loud collision of applauding gloves! 
  MOULTRIE.

  Your labors, my talented brother,
    Are happily over at last;
  They tell me that, some how or other,
    The bill is rejected,—­or past: 
  And now you’ll be coming, I’m certain,
    As fast as four posters can crawl,
  To help us draw up our curtain,
    As usual, at Fustian Hall.

  Arrangements, are nearly completed;
    But still we’ve a lover or two,
  Whom Lady Albina entreated,
    We’d keep, at all hazards, for you: 
  Sir Arthur makes horrible faces,—­
    Lord John is a trifle too tall,—­
  And yours are the safest embraces
    To faint in, at Fustian Hall.

  Come, Clarence;—­it’s really enchanting
    To listen and look at the rout;
  We’re all of us puffing, and panting,
    And raving, and running about;
  Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle;
    There Andrew and Anthony bawl;
  Flutes murmur, chains rattle, robes rustle,
    In chorus, at Fustian Hall.