ell for the first mess of pottage from Edom.
Well, Madame, _Punch_ wishes you luck with your lantern,
And up, soon or late, may a true Honest Man turn!

* * * * *

STANZAS TO RHUBARB.

(_By The O'Greedy._)

O bright new-comer, I have seen,
I see thee, and rejoice;
Though what the coster-man may mean
I judge not, by his voice.
I see thee, and to either eye
The tears unbidden start;
O rhubarb! shall I call thee pie,
Or art thou truly tart?

I was not wont thy charms to see
When childhood stubborn stood
Fix'd in the faith, that thou must be
Too wholesome to be good.
Just as we loved the cloying jam,
By no effects dismay'd,
Regarding as a bitter sham
The honest marmalade.

When daffodillies deck the shops,
And hyacinths indoors
Recall the flavour of the drops
We used to suck by scores
(Pear-drops they were,--a subtle blend
Of hyacinthine smell,
And the banana's blackest end,--
We loved them, and were well);

When chrysalis-buds are folded thick,
And crocuses awake,
And, like celestial almonds, stick
In Flora's tipsy-cake;
Before the crews are on the Thames,
The swallows on the wing,
The radiant rhubarb-bundle flames,
The lictor-rod of Spring.

Still, still reluctant Winter keeps
Some chill surprise in store,
And Spring through frosty curtain peeps
On snowdrifts at her door;
The full moon smites the leafless trees,
So full, it bursts with light,
Till the sharp shadows seem to freeze
Along the highway white.

Yet the keen wind has heard the song
Of summer far away.
And, though he's got the music wrong,
We know what he would say.
For in the vegetable cart
Thy radiant stalks we spy.
O rhubarb, should we call thee tart,
Or art thou merely pie?

And why not so? The cushat dove
To such a shrine we trust,
Though in dumb protest she will shove
Her tootsies through the crust;
And larks, that sing at Heaven's gate
When April clouds are high,
Not seldom gain the gourmet's plate
Through portals of the pie.

So thou, sweet harbinger of Spring,
Gules of her blazon'd field,
If in a pie thy praise we sing,
To worthy fate wilt yield.
Enough! I sing; let others eat:
Be mine the poet's lot.
The thought of thee is all too sweet--
The taste of thee is not.

* *