HENRY KIRKE WUITE'S POEMS. 



A window vainly stuffed about 



To keep Xoveuiber's breezes out, 



So crazy, that the panes proclaim 



That soon they mean to leave the frame. 



My furniture, I sure may crack — ■ 



A broken chair without a back ; 



A table, wanting just two legs, 



One end sustained by wooden pegs ; 



A desk — of that I am not fervent. 



The work of, sir, your humble servant, 



(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler ;) 



A glass decanter and a tumbler. 



From which mj night-parch'd throat I lave, 



Luxurious, with the limpid wave ; 



A chest of drawers, in antique sections, 



And sawed by me in all directions ; 



So small, sir, that whoever views 'em. 



Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em. 



To these, if you will add a store 



Of oddities upon the floor, 



A pair of globes, electric balls, 



Scales, quadrants, prisms, and cobbler's awls, 



And crowds of books on rotten shelves, 



Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves ; 



I think, dear Xed, you curious dog, 



You'll have my earthly catalogue. 



But stay, — I nearly had left out 



My bellows, destitute of snout ; 



And on the walls, — Good Heavens ! why there 



I've such a load of precious ware, 



Of heads, and coins, and silver medals, 



And organ works, and broken pedals, 



(For I was once a-building music, 



Though soon of that employ I grew sick), 



And skeletons of laws which shoot 



All out of one primordial root ; 



That you, at sucli a sight, Avould swear. 



Confusion's self had settled there. 



There stands, just by a broken sphere, 



