THE REPLY.

Dear Exile, I was pleased to get

Your rhymes, I laid them up in cotton;

You know that you are all to “Pet,”

I feared that I was quite forgotten:

Mama, who scolds me when I mope,

Insists — and she is wise as gentle —

That I am still in love — I hope

That you are rather sentimental.

Perhaps you think a child should not

Be gay unless her slave is with her;

Of course you love old Rome, and, what

Is more, would like to coax me thither:

What! quit this dear delightful maze

Of calls and balls, to be intensely

Discomfited in fifty ways —

I like your confidence immensely!

Some girls who love to ride and race,

And live for dancing — like the Bruens,

Confess that Rome's a charming place,

In spite of all the stupid ruins:

I think it might be sweet to pitch

One's tent beside those banks of Tiber,

And all that sort of thing — of which

Dear Hawthorne's “quite” the best describer.

To see stone pines, and marble gods,

In garden alleys — red with roses —

The Perch where Pio Nono nods;

The Church where Raphael reposes.

Make pleasant giros — when we may;

Jump stagionate — where they're easy;

And play croquet — the Bruens say

There's turf behind the Ludovisi.

I'll bring my books, though Mrs. Mee

Says packing books is such a worry;

I'll bring my “Golden Treasury,”

Manzoni — and, of course, a “Murray;”

A TUPPER, whom you men despise;

A Dante — Auntie owns a quarto —

I'll try and buy a smaller size,

And read him on the muro torto.

But can I go? La Madre thinks

It would be such an undertaking:—

I wish we could consult a sphynx;—

The thought alone has set her quaking.

Papa — we do not mind Papa —

Has got some “notice” of some “motion,”

And could not stay; but, why not,— Ah,

I've not the very slightest notion.

The Browns have come to stay a week,

They've brought the boys, I have n't thanked‘ em,

For Baby Grand, and Baby Pic,

Are playing cricket in my sanctum:

Your Rover too affects my den,

And when I pat the dear old whelp, it...

It makes me think of you, and then...

And then I cry — I cannot help it.

Ah, yes — before you left me, ere

Our separation was impending,

These eyes had seldom shed a tear —

For mine was joy that knew no ending;

Yes, soon there came a change, too soon:

The first faint cloud that rose to grieve me

Was knowledge I possessed the boon,

And then a fear such bliss might leave me.

This strain is sad: yet, understand,

Your words have made my spirit better:

And when I first took pen in hand,

I meant to write a cheery letter;

But skies were dull,— Rome sounded hot,

I fancied I could live without it:

I thought I'd go — I thought I'd not,

And then I thought I'd think about it.

The sun now glances o'er the Park,

If tears are on my cheek, they glitter;

I think I've kissed your rhymes, for — hark!

My “bulley” gives a saucy twitter.

Your blessed words extinguish doubt,

A sudden breeze is gaily blowing,

And, hark! The minster bells ring out —

“She ought to go! Of course she's going.”