POETRY.
"IMP EFFIE."
" hIP EFFIE "—language can't express
The life that sparkles in her eyes, And what if I must needs confess That Effie is not very wise ?
Her nonsense talked with blithesome air Sweeter to me than wisdom seems ;
I love to see her toss her hair,
I love to hear her tell her dreams.
Near her philosophers seem fools, Their logic and inductions chaff ; Forms, maxims, axioms, reasons, rules, Evaporate in Effie's laugh.
How coldly rigid and aloft The finger-posts of Science shine, When Effie's digits warm and soft Are playing at "hot hands" with mine !
She's very ignorant, the pet, Of creed or dogma old or new ; She's very credulous, and yet Her articles of faith are few.
To Reverend men she's barely civil, Though prompt to succour the forlorn ; She's duly fearful of the devil, But sees no harm in being born.
Not clear about the "second birth," She trusts her sins will be forgiven ; And that when called to quit the earth, She'll go up—naturally—to Heaven. Meanwhile, too fond, I fear, the rogue is Of this world's vanities and pomps ; Thinks "serious people" "awful fogies," Nay, 'neath their solemn noses romps ; Leaps, tumbles, screams, to make them quiver ; Shams stupid to excite their spleen ; Then how she titters !—Lord forgive her, The little " imp " is scarce thirteen.
And even whilst I sermonise her, I sometimes can't repress a sigh To think that Effie will grow wiser,
That Effie will grow old, and diet J. S. D.
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