Find, and join them, and try to seem
    A fourth for the old queer merry three,
  With my fame as much of a yearning dream
    As my morrow’s dinner was wont to be.

  But the wit would lag, and the mirth would lack,
    And the god of jollity hear no call,
  And the prosperous broadcloth on my back
    Hung over their spirits like a pall!

  It was not that they failed, each one, to try
    Their warmth of welcome to speak and show;
  I should just have risen and said good-bye,
    With a haughty look, had they served me so.

  It was rather that each would seem, instead,
    With not one vestige of spleen or pride,
  Across a chasm of change to spread
    His greeting hands to the further side.

  And our gladdest words rang strange and cold,
    Like the echoes of other long-lost words;
  And the nights were no more the nights of old
    Than spring would be spring without the birds!

  So they waned and waned, these visits of mine,
    ’Till I married the heiress, ending here. 
  For if caste approves the cigars and wine,
    She must frown perforce upon pipes and beer.

  And now ’tis years since I saw these men,
    Years since I knew them living yet. 
  And of this alone I am sure since then,—­
    That none has gained what he toiled to get.

  For I keep strict watch on the world of art,
    And George, with his wide, rich-dowered brain! 
  His fervent fancy, his ardent heart,
    Though he greatly toiled, has toiled in vain.

  And Fred, for all he may sparkle bright
    In caustic column, in clever quip,
  Of a truth must still be hiding his light
    Beneath the bushel of journalship.

  And dreamy Frank must be dreaming still,
    Lounging through life, if yet alive,
  Smoking his vast preposterous fill,
    Lounging, smoking, striving to strive.

  And I, the fourth in that old queer throng,
    Fourth and least, as my soul avows,—­
  I alone have been counted strong,
    I alone have the laurelled brows!

  Well, and what has it all been worth? 
    May not my soul to my soul confess
  That “succeeding,” here upon earth,
    Does not alway assume success?

  I would cast, and gladly, from this gray head
    Its crown, to regain one sweet lost year
  With artist George, with splenetic Fred,
    With dreamy Frank, with the pipes and beer!

EDGAR FAWCETT.

A BACHELOR’S INVOCATION.

  When all my plans have come to grief,
      And every bill is due,
  And every faith that’s worth belief
      Has proved itself untrue;
  And when, as now, I’ve jilted been
      By every girl I’ve met,
  Ah! then I flee for peace to thee,
      My darling cigarette.