Fringilla

The Vicar's wife was much the same,
In fairer form presented—
A lively, yet a quiet dame,
With home, sweet home, contented.

In parish, needs; and household arts,
A lesson to this glib age;
Well versed in pickles, jams, and tarts,
Piano, chess, and cribbage.

And well she loved the flowers, that speak
A language undefiled—
The flowers that lift the dimpled cheek,
Or droop the dewy eyelid.

Now, if she lingers after us,
What ground have we for snarling?
What act prohibits private buss,
Reserved for "Tommy darling"?

But who are these, so fresh and sweet,
In lovely hats and dresses,
Who half advance, and half retreat,
And peep through clouds of tresses?

"Come, dears!" They shyly offer hand,
Beneath the jasmin trellis;
"Say who you are, girls"—Charlotte, and
Her sister, Caroline Ellis!

Sweet Charlotte hath a serious face,
A gaze almost parental;
A type of every maiden grace,
But a wee bit sentimental.

Bright Caroline hath eyes that dance,
While buoyant airs engirdle her;
Her playful soul may love romance,
But not a creepy curdler.

Sweet Charlotte's are the deep grey eyes
That win profound devotion;
Bright Carry's flash, like azure skies,
With heliograph in motion.

As merry as the vintage ray,
That dances down the grape-rill;
As tender as the dews of May,
Or apple-buds of April.

Their charms are safe to grow more bright
For at least two lustral stages;
And so it seems not unpolite
To enquire what their age is.

"Last May, I was fifteen"; with glee
Replies the laughing Carry;
Sage Charlotte adds—"And I shall be
Seventeen, next February."

To the dining-room we walk on air,
Disdaining jots and tittles;
To feed seems such a low affair—
And yet, hurrah for victuals!

Could e'en a boy ply knife and fork,
In presence so poetic,
Until the vicar draws a cork,
And gives the sniff prophetic?

And when the evening games began,
Pope Joan, and Speculation—
What head could keep its poise and plan,
With the heart in palpitation?

Until, in soft white-curtained bed,
We sink to slumber lowly,
And angels fan the childish head,
With visions sweet and holy.

"Now I do declare," exclaimed our host,
As he strode back from the arish,
"Those railway fellows soon will boast
They have undermined my parish!

"Though none can say I have ever set
My face against improvement,
I cannot quite perceive as yet
The good of this new movement

"Like Hannibal, these folk confound
All nature's institutions,
And shun, with a great dive underground,
Parochial contributions!

"Come boys and girls, let us see their craft,
These hills of Devon will task it;
'Tis a pretty walk to White-Ball shaft,
If the boys will take a basket