THE broom that once through Sarah’s halls,
In hole and corner sped,
Now useless leans ’gainst Sarah’s walls
And gathers dust instead.
So sweeps the slavey now-a-days
So work is shifted o’er,
And maids that once gained honest praise
Now earn that praise no more!
No more the cobweb from its height
The broom of Sarah fells;
The fly alone unlucky wight
Invades the spider’s cells.
Thus energy so seldom wakes,
All sign that Sarah gives
Is when some dish or platter breaks,
To show that still she lives.
_Judy._
’TWAS EVER THUS
I NEVER rear’d a young gazelle,
(Because, you see, I never tried);
But had it known and loved me well,
No doubt the creature would have died.
My rich and aged Uncle John
Has known me long and loves me well
But still persists in living on—
I would he were a young gazelle.
I never loved a tree or flower;
But, if I had, I beg to say
The blight, the wind, the sun, or shower
Would soon have withered it away.
I’ve dearly loved my Uncle John,
From childhood to the present hour,
And yet he will go living on on—
I would he were a tree or flower!
_Henry S. Leigh._