THE TWO MUSICIANS AFTER THE OPERA.

WELL, Panormo, caro mio, now we're snug and warm at home,

And so still the sable city crowned by the majestic

dome,

Let us sit, and in the embers shape our old dear street at Rome.

That allegro-how it chafed one!-was not taken quick enough;

Herr Conductor, though so nimble, isn't of the sterling stuff;

And that basso, though I say it, is, per Bacco, rather gruff.

Still, my eyes ache with the glitter of those thousand streets of lamps;

Through my limbs creeps all the chillness of this London's fogs and damps;

Only hear below our window that dull policeman's measured tramps !

In the distance, low and muffled, like a glutted wild beast's roar,

Comes the murmur of this London, like the surge on Lidos' shore:

How unlike the Roman midnights, Giacomo, in days of yore!

Sometimes, when the curtain's lifting, I forget my violin,

Almost hoping that the Duomo and the glories hid

within

Will rise to me-then I stare at gas, at people, shut my eyes, and so begin.

And, Panormo, caro mio, but for power of looking back,

Shouldn't you and I, amigo, pine away, amid these

black

Seas of mud and skies of vapour-not like Alban air, good lack!

Tides of faces, stone and iron, driving on unto the

'change;

How that scherzo through my fancy will persist to flit and range!

Hand my violin, Panormo, this staccato's new and strange.

O this London! dear amigo, think of Roma and its hills,

Pillar, statue, palace, gardens, all the marble fountain rills.

How that young soprano's roulade through my old brain shakes and trills!

See St. Peter's world of columns, altars, shrines, and miles of roof;

Dome, a universe of colour : never shall the Austrians' hoof

Blood-print Roma—no, Panormo, even though kings keep aloof.

Good night, caro mio, you have half a mile to walk.

I must sit up till the dawning, at this piece of Clapperchalk;

All the long laid ghosts of childhood will around my candle stalk.

I shall dream of stately Corso, where the blood-red coaches roll,

Of the dim and painted chapels, where they pray for dead men's soul;

Then wake up at roar of London, and the cabs that grind and roll.

One more glass, amigo mio; break your pipe before you go.

Life is brittle-who can tell us when the black

hand strikes the blow?

That? O that is laudanum mixture; I've been

rather weak and low.

HOGARTH'S NOTES ON HIS THUMB

NAIL.

(After a morning's walk)

My notes-those white lips faintly pressed

Close to a dusty window pane,

The red eyes staring through the rain.

The sudden glare of tavern cheat,

When the fool's eyes were turned away-
Just lightning in a summer's day.

The spendthrift staring through the blind
At a tall glass of curdling wine;
Soon will the father froth and pine.

The puzzled, anxious, wondering gaze
Of wife, on husband's fist intent,
Thinking it but a jest he meant.

The viper eyes, so red and pinched,
Of the dwarf that tried to stab the man
In the bar of the "Goose and Frying-pan."

The surgeon's look who raised the cloth
From dead man's face, so hard and cold;
His scowl when he replaced the fold.