"THERE GO THE SPICER WILCOXES, MAMMA! I'M TOLD THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW
US. HADN'T WE BETTER CALL?"
"CERTAINLY NOT, DEAR. IF THEY'RE DYING TO KNOW US, THEY'RE NOT WORTH
KNOWING. THE ONLY PEOPLE WORTH _OUR_ KNOWING ARE THE PEOPLE WHO
_DON'T_ WANT TO KNOW US!"]
* * * * *
THE BRIDAL WREATH.
IN MEMORIAM
H.R.H. THE DUKE OF CLARENCE AND AVONDALE.
BORN, JAN. 8, 1864. DIED, JAN. 14, 1892.
"I thought thy bridal to have deck'd ...
And not have strew'd thy grave."--_Hamlet_.
But yesterday it seems,
That, dreaming loyal dreams,
_Punch_, with the People, genially rejoiced
In that Betrothal Wreath;[1]
And now relentless Death
Silences all the joy our hopes had voiced.
The Shadow glides between;
The garland's vernal green
Shrivels to greyness in its spectral hand.
Joy-bells are muffled, mute,
Hushed is the bridal lute,
And general grief darkens across the land.
Surely a hapless fate
For young hearts so elate,
So fired with promise of approaching bliss!
Oh, flowers we hoped to fling!
Oh, songs we thought to sing!
Prophetic fancy had not pictured this.
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