But that trombone over all
Toots unto my heart a call;--
Maid petite, and trombone tall--
It's a mash!

Yet, I hesitate--for lo,
What a pout!
She's poetic; and I know
I am stout.
In her little room would she
On her trombone, tenderly,
Sit and toot as thus to me?--
Ah, I doubt!



THE POET IS BIDDEN TO MANHATTAN ISLAND.


Dear Poet, quit your shady lanes
And come where more than lanes are shady.
Leave Phyllis to the rustic swains
And sing some Knickerbocker lady.
O hither haste, and here devise
Divine ballades before unuttered.
Your poet's eyes must recognize
The side on which your bread is buttered!

Dream not I tempt you to forswear
One pastoral joy, or rural frolic.