ARCADES AMBO.

Why are ye wandering aye‘ twixt porch and porch,

Thou and thy fellow — when the pale stars fade

At dawn, and when the glowworm lights her torch,

O Beadle of the Burlington Arcade?

— Who asketh why the Beautiful was made?

A wan cloud drifting o'er the waste of blue,

The thistledown that floats above the glade,

The lilac-blooms of April — fair to view,

And naught but fair are these; and such, I ween, are you.

Yes, ye are beautiful. The young street boys

Joy in your beauty. Are ye there to bar

Their pathway to that paradise of toys,

Ribbons and rings? Who'll blame ye if ye are?

Surely no shrill and clattering crowd should mar

The dim aisle's stillness, where in noon's mid-glow

Trip fair-hair'd girls to boot-shop or bazaar;

Where, at soft eve, serenely to and fro

The sweet boy-graduates walk, nor deem the pastime slow.

And O! forgive me, Beadles, if I paid

Scant tribute to your worth, when first ye stood

Before me robed in broadcloth and brocade

And all the nameless grace of Beadlehood!

I would not smile at ye — if smile I could

Now as erewhile, ere I had learn'd to sigh:

Ah, no! I know ye beautiful and good,

And evermore will pause as I pass by,

And gaze, and gazing think, how base a thing am I.