IMPRESSION.

THE pink and black of silk and lace,

Flushed in the rosy-golden glow

Of lamplight on her lifted face;

Powder and wig, and pink and lace,

And those pathetic eyes of hers;

But all the London footlights know

The little plaintive smile that stirs

The shadow in those eyes of hers.

Outside, the dreary church-bell tolled,

The London Sunday faded slow;

Ah, what is this? what wings unfold

In this miraculous rose of gold?