THE WAKE OF THE KING OF SPAIN.* ARRAYED in robes of regal state, But stiff and cold, the monarch sate; Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride; And paladin and high-born dame Their place amid the circle claim : And wands of office lifted high, And arms and blazoned heraldry,— *The kings of Spain for nine days after death are placed sitting in robes of state with their attendants around them, and solemnly summoned by the proper officers to their meals and their amusements as if living. All mute like marble statues stand, Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand : No voice, no sound to stir the air, The silence of the grave is there. The portal opens-hark, a voice! Come forth, O king! O king, rejoice! The bowl is filled, the feast is spread, Come forth, O king!"—The king is dead. The bowl, the feast, he tastes no more, The feast of life for him is o'er. Again the sounding portals shake, And speaks again the voice that spake : 66 The sun is high, the sun is warm, Forth to the field the gallants swarm, The foaming bit the courser champs, His hoof the turf impatient stamps; Light on their steeds the hunters spring: The sun is high-Come forth, O king!" Along these melancholy walls In vain the voice of pleasure calls: The horse may neigh, and bay the hound,— He hears no more; his sleep is sound. THE BABY-HOUSE. DEAR Agatha, I give you joy, And much admire your pretty toy, A mansion in itself complete And fitted to give guests a treat; With couch and table, chest and chair, The bed or supper to prepare; We almost wish to change ourselves To fairy forms of tripping elves, To press the velvet couch and eat From tiny cups the sugared meat. I much suspect that many a sprite Inhabits it at dead of night; That, as they dance, the listening ear That, just as you have said your prayers, And you'll do well to try to find Tester or ring they 've left behind. But think not, Agatha, you own That toy, a Baby-house, alone; For many a sumptuous one is found To press an ampler space of ground. The broad-based Pyramid that stands Casting its shade in distant lands, Which asked some mighty nation's toil With mountain-weight to press the soil, And there has raised its head sublime Through æras of uncounted time, |