The flowers and grass lie under;
   The sparkling hoar frost yet shall show,
      A world of fairy wonder. 
   To me more dear such scenes appear,
      Than this eternal racket,
   No longer will I fret and fag! 
   Hey! call a cab, bring down my bag,
      And help me quick to pack it. 
For here one must go where every one goes,
And meet shoals of people whom one never knows,
   Till it makes a poor fellow dyspeptic;
And the world wags along with its sorrows and shows,
And will do just the same when I’m dead I suppose;
   And I’m rapidly growing a sceptic. 
For its oh, alas, well-a-day, and a-lack! 
I’ve a pain in my head and an ache in my back;
   A terrible cold that makes me shiver,
   And a general sense of a dried-up liver;
      And I feel I can hardly bear it. 
And it’s oh for a field with four hedgerows,
And the bliss which comes from an hour’s repose,
   And a true, true friend to share it.

PROTHALAMION.

The following “Prothalamion” was recently discovered among some other rubbish in Pope’s Villa at Twickenham.  It was written on the backs of old envelopes, and has evidently not received the master’s last touches.  Some of the lines afford an admirable instance of the way in which great authors frequently repeat themselves.

Nothing so true as what you once let fall,—­
“To growl at something is the lot of all;
Contentment is a gem on earth unknown,
And Perfect Happiness the wizard’s stone. 
Give me,” you cried, “to see my duty clear,
And room to work, unhindered in my sphere;
To live my life, and work my work alone,
Unloved while living, and unwept when gone. 
Let none my triumphs or my failures share,
Nor leave a sorrowing wife and joyful heir.”

Go, like St. Simon, on your lonely tower,
Wish to make all men good, but want the power. 
Freedom you’ll have, but still will lack the thrall,—­
The bond of sympathy, which binds us all. 
Children and wives are hostages to fame,
But aids and helps in every useful aim.

You answer, “Look around, where’er you will,
Experience teaches the same lesson still. 
Mark how the world, full nine times out of ten,
To abject drudgery dooms its married men: 
A slave at first, before the knot is tied,
But soon a mere appendage to the bride;
A cover, next, to shield her arts from blame;
At home ill-tempered, but abroad quite tame;
In fact, her servant; though, in name, her lord;
Alive, neglected; but, defunct, adored.”

This picture, friend, is surely overdone,
You paint the tribe by drawing only one;
Or from one peevish grunt, in haste, conclude
The man’s whole life with misery imbued.

Say, what can Horace want to crown his life,
Blest with eight little urchins, and a wife? 
His lively grin proclaims the man is blest,
Here perfect happiness must be confessed! 
Hark, hear that melancholy shriek, alack!—­
That vile lumbago keeps him on the rack.