Sad is the hour when sets the Sun—­
    Dark is the night to Earth’s poor daughters
  When to the ark the wearied one
    Flies from the empty waste of waters! 
      Heavy the sorrow that bows the head
      When Love is alive and Hope is dead!

THE JUDGE’S SONG.

  When I, good friends, was called to the Bar,
    I’d an appetite fresh and hearty,
  But I was, as many young barristers are,
    An impecunious party. 
  I’d a swallow-tail coat of a beautiful blue—­
    A brief which I bought of a booby—­
  A couple of shirts and a collar or two,
    And a ring that looked like a ruby!

  In Westminster Hall I danced a dance,
    Like a semi-despondent fury;
  For I thought I should never hit on a chance
    Of addressing a British Jury—­
  But I soon got tired of third class journeys,
    And dinners of bread and water;
  So I fell in love with a rich attorney’s
    Elderly, ugly daughter.

  The rich attorney, he wiped his eyes,
    And replied to my fond professions: 
  “You shall reap the reward of your enterprise,
    At the Bailey and Middlesex Sessions. 
  You’ll soon get used to her looks,” said he,
    “And a very nice girl you’ll find her—­
  She may very well pass for forty-three
    In the dusk, with a light behind her!”

  The rich attorney was as good as his word: 
    The briefs came trooping gaily,
  And every day my voice was heard
    At the Sessions or Ancient Bailey. 
  All thieves who could my fees afford
    Relied on my orations,
  And many a burglar I’ve restored
    To his friends and his relations.

  At length I became as rich as the Gurneys—­
    An incubus then I thought her,
  So I threw over that rich attorney’s
    Elderly, ugly daughter. 
  The rich attorney my character high
    Tried vainly to disparage—­
  And now, if you please, I’m ready to try
    This Breach of Promise of Marriage!

TRUE DIFFIDENCE.

  My boy, you may take it from me,
    That of all the afflictions accurst
      With which a man’s saddled
      And hampered and addled,
    A diffident nature’s the worst. 
  Though clever as clever can be—­
    A Crichton of early romance—­
      You must stir it and stump it,
      And blow your own trumpet,
    Or, trust me, you haven’t a chance.

  Now take, for example, my case: 
    I’ve a bright intellectual brain—­
      In all London city
      There’s no one so witty—­
    I’ve thought so again and again. 
  I’ve a highly intelligent face—­
    My features cannot be denied—­
      But, whatever I try, sir,
      I fail in—­and why, sir? 
    I’m modesty personified!