rs.
Figures appearing 'mid blossom and fruit,
In an airy, fairy, magical way;
Their lips keep moving altho' they are mute
For ears too distant to hear what they say.

From a lily bud can a voice be sent?--
'Let us hope the Captain's wild oats are sown;
A pretty young wife should make him content'--
Only a word in a soft-spoken tone!

Moving serenely 'mid beauty and song,
Am not I born for the glittering throng?
Treading on roses with delicate feet,
Is not a life a perpetual treat?
Can we be more than delighted and blest?
Pleasure is beautiful--is it the best?
Highest and best that our nature can know?
Answer my heart--and my heart answers No.
And my heart answers, 'more beautiful yet
Life is for those who leave _Home_ with regret,
And greet it again as the sailor greets shore,
Gaily returning to life gone before.'

Thus from the banquet two lovers depart,
Owning thy truth, lovely voice of my heart;
Seeking a home that, whatever befall,
Is brighter and sweeter and dearer than all;
Better than all that the world can decree,
For happy young creatures like Harry and me!

Self-ordained critics, we sit at our ease,
Life spread before us to judge as we please;
Harry in quite a ridiculous way
Prates about wine, like a swell in a play;
Next, the made dishes proceeding to scan,
With wisdom becoming a greedy old man;
Looking so charmingly youthful and gay,
I laugh in his face at his airs of _gourmet_;
Admitting myself but three things to be nice--
Champagne, lobster salad, and strawberry ice.

Then pass the people in sparkling review;
I ask fifty questions beginning with Who?
Midnight approaches--a sense of repose
Floating about me, my eyelids half close;
Rising, I languidly say, 'By the bye,
Who is the Captain?' he laughs in reply,
Stands up in front of me, just face to face,
Makes me a bow with an air and a grace:
'The Captain this moment before you' you see--
That's my nickname in the country,' says he.
Pleasantly sleepy I felt ere he spake,
Now I am thoroughly widely awake;
A shock passes through me of horrid surprise,
I turn upon Harry my wondering eyes,
Catching at hopes, as the drowning at straws,
I cry, as the truth for a moment withdraws,
'You're quizzing me, Harry--that's what you're at,
It _cannot_ be _you_ that they speak of like that!'
Then he insists on my telling, displeas'd
At any