SEMPER EADEM.

HIS table beside in the thick-crowded street,

His form bent with years, and with poverty meagre,

A vender of trinkets, in unshaded seat,

Of sun-glare regardless, sat patiently eager.

In tones of entreaty at times he besought

In return for his trifles their value so trifling:

Unheard his appeals, and his wares were unbought,

His face plainly showed what distress he was stifling.

The hurrying multitude crowded along,

In business absorbed or intent upon pleasure;

But none in this teeming, self-occupied throng

For poverty's troubles had money or leisure.

None? said I. Yes, one; with delight I espy

What well was designed to be seen con amore:

What stirred my emotion and moistened mine eye?

Seek this heart-touching sight in the rest of my story.

At the poor vender's table, a feminine form,

Resplendent with loveliness, culture, and fashion,

Made pause from the by-passing, on-pushing swarm,

With features expressive of grief and compassion.

Here's food for the easel! Oh, had I the art

This tableau inspiring immortal to render!

Cold and selfish the rest, but a woman's soft heart

Is distressed by the lot of this pitiful vender.

How easy it is to adopt an idea,

Or take for true worth what mere looks may betoken!

How easily, too, such conceits disappear!

How quickly an idol thus raised can be broken!

A second look only was needed, to show

My hasty impression a dreary delusion;

That one luckless glance was sufficient to throw

My romancing into provoking confusion.

My ardor was short-lived, my ecstasy brief,

And cooled soon my fire to misogyny icy;

My feminine model of laudable grief

Proved true to her trivial sex, me judice.

On the street-merchant's table a Looking-glass stood,

Too plain now the cause of the lady's dejection;

For the sorrowful eyes of this creature so good

Were solely intent on her own vain reflection.

For poverty's woes she had never a thought;

In weightier matter her sorrow existed.

Some kind of mysterious hook had uncaught,

And that marvel of rigging, her bustle, was twisted.

Since then, this opinion, I sadly confess,

I find it incumbent upon me to stick to;

To think in the street of a thing save her dress

Would be, for a woman, mirabile dictu.

CELEBS.