Then he dreams in his crapulous slumber,
What the beast in him must;

Prates of sins without name, without number,
Mixes learning and lust.

Then he wakes with the clatter of glasses,

And a sound like a curse;

Chucks his maid on the chin as she passes, And jingles his purse.

But he seems, in the pulpit, so sober,

So devoted and sound;

And as mellow as pears in October,
When just frosted and browned.

Never mind, if he's ugly and narrow,
Or as old as thy sire;

Let him sport with his hoe and his barrow,
With his pigs in their mire.

O my love, I am jealous and bitter,
For the fate thou hast met ;

For I hoped, like a fool, I was fitter-
O my playmate, my pet !

Thou hast left me so soon without warning,
That it's all like a dream-

Like a nightmare that comes before morning,
In the gloom and the gleam.

Yesterday we were friends, we were lovers,
And our faces were bright;

Yet to-day but the dawning discovers
The delusions of night.

And the morrow-I muse on the morrow
With an awe and a grief;

Will it heap on us sufferings and sorrow,
Will it bring us relief?

O the visions that rise and confound me,
When for solace I burn!

O the troubles that chafe and surround me,
Wheresoever I turn!

And thou-is there peace in thy bosom,
Is there light in those eyes?

Has thy life not gone out in its blossom,
And the sun in thy skies?

Will a child ever call thee its mother,

And climb to thy knee?

Will its fondlings and foolishness smother

All the yearnings to be?

Ah, the firelight will flicker and show thee

Fair tresses that shine;

Dim features will waver and throw thee
Their endearments divine.

In thy chamber no blessing to nestle
To the warmth of thy breast;

On thy pillow no darling to wrestle,
And to sweeten thy rest.

In the day a mute hunger and raving
For the lips and the hands;

In the night but a pitiless craving
For the childish demands.

Thou wiit hear but thy husband's dull tattle,

As he chokes with his bile;

But no infantine lisping or prattle,

To provoke thee to smile.

When the babe of thy friend chides its mother,

Will it sting thee at last?

Wilt thou wish that thy fortune were other
Than the fortune thou hast ?

Yet thou lackest no purchase of money,

At the beck of thy hand;

Thou hast stores of the milk and the honey,
Of the fat of the land.

For his animal eye in thy satins

Finds a luxury cold;

And he swells to survey thee at Matins,

In his purple and gold.

Is the title of wife such a treasure,

If the truth is not there?

Wilt thou find in his thoughts any pleasure

That thou ever canst share?

Is it home where the household is saddened

By the plaint of thy dove;

Where the hall and the stairs are not gladdened
With the laughter of love?

In the darkness and silence I wonder,
When thy dreams are at strife,

Wilt thou deem it a sin, or a blunder,
To have blasted thy life?

And in vain any hopes dost thou cherish,
Where the promise is not;

They will dazzle thy sight but to perish,
They will ripen to rot.

OI know how the shadows will thicken,

And thy bosom will quake;

Thou wilt cryf or a rapture to quicker,

For a presence to wake.

Though thy sobs and entreaties were double,
Yet the storm would be still;

Shall God and His thunders have trouble
To come down at thy will?

At each step thou wilt tremble and hearken

For the foot that has fled;

And thy eyes in their anguish will darken,
As the eyes of the dead.

And for me-but I cannot uncover

Half the wounds of my heart;

It were idle to plead as a lover,
When a stranger's thou art.

If I dared for a moment to sever

From my passion its mask,
Should I find what I follow for ever,
Should I have what I ask?

Would my fire be availing to heat thee,
And to draw thee more near?

Wouldst thou mock at my weeping to meet thee,
Were I borne on my bier ?

Thy face would be surely averted,

In the maddening of pain,

And the tears would not leave thee deserted

By their tempest of rain.

But, alas! as a fool I am dreaming,

As a knave I conspire;

To defraud thee of sanctity's seeming
Is an impious desire.

Stick fast to thy holy supporter,
While he still is thy own;

Till the querulous days growing shorter,
Leave thee childless and lone.

Though his gossip wax flat in its flavour,
And his stories be stale,

And his breath have too often the savour
Of his snuff and his ale;

Though he stint thee and cease to be civil,
And be free with his oath ;

Though in waking and dreaming he drivel.
Nor to lying is loath:

If, at last, when his senses are duller,
And his life in his paunch,

He should beat in thy paleness a colour,
Thou must bear and be staunch.

Is he not all thy husband and patron,
With his burden of fat;

And thou but the jest of a matron,

Who art wedded to that?

Do not fret at his vices and weakness,

His debauches of wine;

But put up with the scandal in meekness

For, remember, he's thine.

But my lips, O they long so to bless thee,

And they thirst so to kiss ;

And my arms, how they crave to caress thee,

The dear maiden they miss!

In the daytime thy image yet lingers,

And I grope in the night

Ah, I feel for the touch of thy fingers,
That are wondrous and white.

I am hungry, and nought can appease me
But the words of thy mouth;

I am parched, and what medicine can ease me
But thy balm for my drouth?

I am faint, and the morning is dreary,
And the noon has a cloud;

Yea, at evening I mourn and am weary,
For the love that was vowed.

I am stricken, and no one is near me
To take count of my sighs;

I am dying, and nothing can cheer me
Save the light of thy eyes.

Is it day? is it night? for I know not,
And my eyesight is dark;

Do they call me and chide? but I go not,
For my ears cannot hark.

O my darling, my sweet, I am thinking
Through the seasons of thee;

And thy voice I am ever enlinking
With the sound of the sea.

When I toy with the shell of the shingle
That I lift to my ear;

My God! the soft murmurs that tingle,
And the name that I hear!

In the wail of the west wind it quivers,
With low pulses of grief;

In the chill of the east wind it shivers
Like a storm-beaten leaf.

In the crowd I go foolishly chasing
Thy phantom or thought,

And alone I am always embracing
A form that is nought.

Shall I give of my hatred or laughter,

For the wrong thou hast done?

Shall we meet in the world or hereafter,

And apart or as one?

There is death with its sting and its scourges,

And the grave has its curse;

Yea, the sea has its funeral surges ;

But thy love-it is worse.

F. W. ORDE WARD.

THE BIRMINGHAM DOG SHOW.

BY OLD CALABAR.'