A WARNING.

HE.



I loathe all books. I hate to see

The world and men through others' eyes;

My own are good enough for me.

These scribbling fellows I despise;

They bore me.

I used to try to read a bit,

But, when I did, a sleepy fit

Came o'er me.



Yet here I sit with pensive look,

Filling my pipe with fragrant loads,

Gazing in rapture at a book!--

A free translation of the Odes

Of Horace.

'Tis owned by sweet Elizabeth,

And breathes a subtle, fragrant breath

Of orris.



I longed for something that was hers

To cheer me when I'm feeling low;

I saw this book of paltry verse,

And asked to take it home--and so

She lent it.

I love her deep and tenderly,

Yet dare not tell my love, lest she

Resent it.



I'll learn to quote a stanza here,

A couplet there. I'm very sure

'Twould aid my suit could I appear

_Au fait_ in books and literature.

I'll do it!

This jingle I can quickly learn;

Then, hid in roses, I'll return

Her poet!





A VALENTINE. A WINTER EVENING HYMN TO MY FIRE.
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