And unopened it's remaining!
I can read her gentle hope--
Her entreaties, uncomplaining
(She was always uncomplaining),
Her devotion never waning--
Through the little envelope!



At A Pantomime. By A Bilious One



An Actor sits in doubtful gloom,
His stock-in-trade unfurled,
In a damp funereal dressing-room
In the Theatre Royal, World.

He comes to town at Christmas-time,
And braves its icy breath,
To play in that favourite pantomime,
Harlequin Life and Death.

A hoary flowing wig his weird
Unearthly cranium caps,
He hangs a long benevolent beard
On a pair of empty chaps.

To smooth his ghastly features down
The actor's art he cribs,--