He was young, and she—­enchanting! 
          She had eyes of tender grey,
        Fringed with long and lovely lashes,
          As he passed they seemed to say,
        With a look that was quite killing,
          “Won’t you buy a pretty flower? 
        Come, invest—­well, just a shilling,
          For the fairest in my bower!”
        Though that bower was full of blossoms,
          Yet the fairest of them all
        Was the pretty grey-eyed maiden
          Standing ’mong them, slim and tall,
        With her dainty arms uplifted
          O’er her figure as she stood
        Just inside the trellised doorway
          Fashioned out of rustic wood;
        And she pouted as he passed her,
          And that pout did so beguile,
        That he thought it more bewitching
          Than another’s sweetest smile. 
        Fair as tiny dew-dipped rosebuds
          Were the little rounded lips;
        And the youth ransacked his pockets
          In a rhapsody of grips. 
        Then he went and told her plainly
          That he’d not a farthing left,
        But would gladly pledge his “Albert”;
          So with fingers quick and deft,
        She unloosed his golden watch-chain—­
          Coiled it round her own white arm,
        Said she’d keep it till the morrow
          As a souvenir—­a charm.

Second Day.

        Full of hope, and faith, and fondness,
          He went forth at early morn,
        And paced up and down the entrance,
          Like a man that was forlorn. 
        Thus for hour on hour he waited,
          Till they opened the bazaar;
        Then she came with kindly greeting;
          “Ah, well, so then, there you are! 
        Come, now, go in for a raffle—­
          Buy a ticket—­half-a-crown.” 
        Ah, those eyes! who could refuse them?—­
          And he put the money down. 
        Then, enthralled, he stood and watched her—­
          Sought each movement of that face,
        With its wealth of witching beauty,
          And its glory and its grace. 
        When the raffling was over,
          Thus she spake in tones of pain: 
        “You are really most unlucky—­
          My—­my husband’s won your chain!”

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FOUR MONTHS.

BY THOMAS HOOD.

          Thou happy, happy elf! 
      (But stop—­first let me kiss away that tear)
          Thou tiny image of myself? 
      (My love, he’s poking peas into his ear)
          Thou merry laughing sprite! 
          With spirits feather-light,
      Untouched by sorrow and unsoiled by sin—­
      (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)