Then I lunched one day with Irving, once I dined with Mr. Tree,
Who in intervals of serving made such faces up at me. 
But they failed me, though the former once a look upon me hurled,
Which expressed how the barn-stormer shows disdain of all the world,
And his look of rapture when I rose to go was quite immense,
Though not either now or then I thought it soulful or intense.

But at last, some long months later—­’twas a dinner I was at
In the City—­“Bring me, waiter,” someone said, “some more green fat.” 
’Twas my vis-a-vis was speaking, and an Alderman was he;
On his radiant face, and reeking, was the hope of joy to be. 
He had all that lost expression, every detail showing plain,
Soulfulness, hope of possession, joy, intensity, disdain.

Then I sought to make him merry, and I plied him with old port,
Claret, burgundy, Bass, sherry, and a little something short;
And this guzzler, by me aided, kept on soaking all the while,
Till that lost expression faded to an idiotic smile,
And his speech grew thick and thicker, and his mind began to roam,
Till he finished off his liquor and I drove him to my home.

There with coils of rope I strapped him to my sofa, firm and fast,
Douched him, doused him, bled and tapped him, till I sobered him at
          last,
To that lost expression led him—­that was all that I was at—­
As for days and weeks I fed him on suggestions of green fat. 
Thus I caught that lost expression, and I cried, “Thrice happy day! 
Once again ’tis my possession.”  Then I turned and fled away.

Without swerving or digression to my Dora straight I sped,
And she gazed at that expression, then she clapped her hands and
          said—­
“You have found it—­who’d have thought it?—­you have brought it me
          again!”
“Yes!” I cried, “and as I’ve brought it, make me happiest of men.” 
But—­oh! who could tell her sorrow, as she cried in wistful tones?—­
“Dick, I’d marry you to-morrow, but I’m Mrs. Bowler Jones!”

A NIGHT SCENE.

BY ROBERT B. BROUGH.

  Out of the grog-shop, I’ve stepp’d in the street. 
  Road, what’s the matter? you’re loose on your feet;
  Staggering, swaggering, reeling about,
  Road, you’re in liquor, past question or doubt.

  Gas-lamps, be quiet—­stand up, if you please. 
  What the deuce ails you? you’re weak in the knees: 
  Some on your heads—­in the gutter some sunk—­
  Gas-lamps, I see it, you’re all of you drunk.

  Angels and ministers! look at the moon—­
  Shining up there like a paper balloon,
  Winking like mad at me:  Moon, I’m afraid—­
  Now I’m convinced—­Oh! you tipsy old jade.

  Here’s a phenomenon:  Look at the stars—­
  Jupiter, Ceres, Uranus, and Mars,
  Dancing quadrilles; caper’d, shuffl’d and hopp’d. 
  Heavenly bodies! this ought to be stopp’d.