Originally published in Tinsley's Magazine (Tinsley Brothers) vol.1 #3 (Oct 1867).
I.
A tiny treasure-house of odds
And ends, which rest where chance has flung them;
Here dwell my precious household gods,
And I—a bachelor—among them.
Within four walls of sober gray,
Beneath a ceiling rather dirty,
I've lived—well, how long shall I say?
Good gracious! I am nearly thirty.
II.
Encircled by these fond old arms—
'Tis only of a chair I'm talking—
I see results of women's charms,
And sticks which tell of feats in walking.
Here's Ashton Grange upon the walls,
Where once they told me I should marry;
And programmes telling tales of balls,
And Clyté—ah, how like to Carry!
III.
What's this which glitters?—take it up,
No matter what the weight or price is;
Of course I love the dear old cup
I won upon the breast of Isis.
And see what's hanging by the door—
Old friends are reverently treated
The very bat which made the score
That year when Rugby was defeated.
IV.
Come, linger by those shelves of books,—
At fancy's frolics I'm no mocker;
Call out my poets from their nooks,
From sweet Catullus unto Locker.
This handkerchief might hint at pelf;
A glove?—she's married to another;
What's that upon the mantelshelf?
The portrait—bless her!—of my mother.
V.
Amidst a wilderness of pipes,
From meerschaum unto humble brier,—
Of luxury the prototypes,
I find contentment is a liar.
Although I thought I knew full well
The tricks put forward to enmesh us;
I see the eyes of Isabel
Suggesting furniture more precious.