Outward Bound.

(HORACE, III. 7.)     "Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi     Primo restituent vere Favonii--     Gygen?"     Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring     Your absent Arthur back shall bring,     Enriched with many an Indian thing     Once more to woo you;     Him neither wind nor wave can check,     Who, cramped beneath the "Simla's" deck,     Still constant, though with stiffened neck,     Makes verses to you.     Would it were wave and wind alone!     The terrors of the torrid zone,     The indiscriminate cyclone,     A man might parry;     But only faith, or "triple brass,"     Can help the "outward-bound" to pass     Safe through that eastward-faring class     Who sail to marry.     For him fond mothers, stout and fair,     Ascend the tortuous cabin stair     Only to hold around his chair     Insidious sessions;     For him the eyes of daughters droop     Across the plate of handed soup,     Suggesting seats upon the poop,     And soft confessions.     Nor are these all his pains, nor most.     Romancing captains cease to boast--     Loud majors leave their whist--to roast     The youthful griffin;     All, all with pleased persistence show     His fate,--"remote, unfriended, slow,"--     His "melancholy" bungalow,--     His lonely tiffin.     In vain. Let doubts assail the weak;     Unmoved and calm as "Adam's Peak,"     Your "blameless Arthur" hears them speak     Of woes that wait him;     Naught can subdue his soul secure;     "Arthur will come again," be sure,     Though matron shrewd and maid mature     Conspire to mate him.     But, Laura, on your side, forbear     To greet with too impressed an air     A certain youth with chestnut hair,--     A youth unstable;     Albeit none more skilled can guide     The frail canoe on Thamis tide,     Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide     Through "Guards" or "Mabel."     Be warned in time. Without a trace     Of acquiescence on your face,     Hear, in the waltz's breathing-space,     His airy patter;     Avoid the confidential nook;     If, when you sing, you find his look     Grow tender, close your music-book,     And end the matter.