Chapter C: H. Waring

RONDEL.

The larch has donned its rosy plumes,
And hastes its emerald beads to string:
The warblers now are on the wing.
Across the pathless ocean-glooms,
Through tender grass and violet blooms,
I move along and gaily sing.
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,
And hastes its emerald beads to string.

Nature with beauteous tints illumes
The fields and groves of budding Spring,
Loud voices from afar to bring;
And my glad Muse its song resumes--
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,
And hastes its emerald beads to string.

RICHARD WILTON.

BENEDICITE.

O all ye Green Things on the Earth,
Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade;
To whisper praises ye were made,
Or wave to Him in solemn mirth.
For this the towering pine had birth,
For this sprang forth each grassy blade;
O all ye Green Things on the Earth,
Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade.

Ye wayside weeds of little worth,
Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade,
Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade,
Ye steadfast yews of mighty girth:
O all ye Green Things on the Earth,
Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade!

RICHARD WILTON.

RONDELETS.

"Which way he went?"
I know not--how should I go spy
Which way he went?
I only know him gone. "Relent?"
He never will--unless I die!
And then, what will it signify
Which way he went?

Say what you please,
But know, I shall not change my mind!
Say what you please,
Even, if you wish it, on your knees--
And, when you hear me next defined
As something lighter than the wind,
Say what you please!

MAY PROBYN.

MIGHT LOVE BE BOUGHT.

Might Love be bought, I were full fain
My all to give thy love to gain.
Yet would such getting profit naught;
Possession with keen fears were fraught,
Would make even love's blisses vain.

For who could tell what god might deign
His golden treasures round thee rain,
Till ruin on my hopes were brought,
Might Love be bought.

Better a pensioner remain
On thy dear grace, since to attain
To worthiness in vain I sought.
Thy kindness hath assurance wrought
Could never be between us twain
Might Love be bought.

ARLO BATES.

IN THY CLEAR EYES.

In thy clear eyes, fairest, I see
Sometimes of love a transient glow;
But ere my heart assured may be,
With cold disdain thou mockest me:
Hope fades as songs to silence flow.

Ah! most bewitching, mocking she,
Fairer than poet's dream may show,
The glance of scorn how can I dree
In thy clear eyes?

Life is so brief, and to and fro,
Like thistledown above the lea,
Fly on poor days; why then so slow
To bend from pride? Let us bliss know
Ere age the light dims ruthlessly
In thy clear eyes.

ARLO BATES.

THE SWEET, SAD YEARS.

The sweet sad years; the sun, the rain,
Alas! too quickly did they wane,
For each some boon, some blessing bore;
Of smiles and tears each had its store,
Its chequered lot of bliss and pain.

Although it idle be and vain,
Yet cannot I the wish restrain
That I had held them evermore,
The sweet sad years!

Like echo of an old refrain
That long within the mind has lain,
I keep repeating o'er and o'er,
"Nothing can e'er the past restore,
Nothing bring back the years again,
The sweet sad years!"

REV. CHARLES D. BELL, D.D.

A WISH.

Fain would I pass from all the pain,
The aching heart and weary brain,
From gnawing grief and withering care,
And passion rising to despair,
From love dissatisfied and vain.

From tears that burn the cheeks they stain,
And hopes that droop like flowers in rain,
From sorrows that turn grey the hair,
Fain would I pass!

Beyond the silent, soundless main,
Where the long lost are found again,
Where summer smiles for ever fair,
Where skies are pure, divine the air,
Where love and joy eternal reign,
Fain would I pass!

REV. CHARLES D. BELL, D.D.

TO A DOLEFUL POET.

Why are you sad when the sky is blue?
Why, when the sun shines bright for you,
And the birds are singing, and all the air
So sweet with the flowers everywhere?
If life hath thorns, it has roses too.

Be wise and be merry. 'Tis half untrue
Your doleful song. You have work to do.
If the work be good, and the world so fair,
Why are you sad?

Life's sorrows are many, its joys so few!
Ah! sing of the joys! Let the dismal crew
Of black thoughts bide in their doleful lair,
Give us glad songs; sing us free from care.
Gladness maketh the world anew,
Why are you sad?

_An Answer._

Why am I sad when the sky is blue,
You ask, O friend, and I answer you--
I love the sun and balmy air,
The flowers and glad things everywhere.
But if life is merry, 'tis earnest too.

And the earnest hour, if hope be true,
Must be solemn or sad; for the work we do
Is little and weak. Ask the world so fair
Why I am sad.

For me glad hours are nowise few,
But life is so serious-ship and crew
Bound such a voyage to death's dark lair.
My work is my happy song: but care
Still steals on the quiet hour anew
And makes it sad.

H. COURTHOPE BOWEN.

"HIS POISONED SHAFTS."

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips
In juice of plants that no bee sips,
He takes, and with his bow renown'd
Goes out upon his hunting ground,
Hanging his quiver at his hips.

He draws them one by one, and clips
Their heads between his finger tips,
And looses with a twanging sound
His poisoned shafts.

But if a maiden with her lips
Suck from his wound the blood that drips,
And drink the poison from the wound,
The simple remedy is found
That of their deadly terror strips
His poisoned shafts.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

TO HOMER.

All down the years thy tale has rolled--
A brilliant streak of burnished gold
Old Homer, near we seem to thee,
As roving over vale and sea
Thou tellest of thy hero bold!

For we too wonder, as of old
Thy hero did. The fates are doled
To us the same, both serf and free,
All down the years.

None other yet has ever told
So sweet a tale; as we unfold
Thy mystic page we find the key
Of human sorrow, guilt and glee,
Which ever comes our souls to mould
All down the years.

JOHN MALCOLM BULLOCH.

SEPTEMBER.

The Summer's gone--how did it go?
And where has gone the dogwood's show?
The air is sharp upon the hill,
And with a tinkle sharp and chill
The icy little brooklets flow.

What is it in the season, though,
Brings back the days of old, and so
Sets memory recalling still
The Summer's gone?

Why are my days so dark? for lo!
The maples with fresh glory glow,
Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill,
The keen air sets the blood a-thrill-
Ah! now that _you_ are gone, I know
The Summer's gone.

H. C. BUNNER.

LES MORTS VONT VITE.

_Les morts vont vite!_ Ay for a little space
We miss and mourn them, fallen from their place;
To take our portion in their rest are fain;
But by-and-by, having wept, press on again,
Perchance to win their laurels in the race.

What man would find the old in the new love's face?
Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace,
For withered roses newer blooms disdain?
_Les morts vont vite!_

But when disease brings thee in piteous case,
Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace
To them for whom remembrance plead in vain.
Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow Pain
Clasp thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace:
_Les morts vont vite!_

H. C. BUNNER.

"IN LOVE'S DISPORT."

In love's disport, gay bubbles blown
On summer winds light-freighted flown:
A child intent upon delight
The painted spheres would keep in sight,
Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown.

Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grown
Fair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone,
Clear globes where fate may read aright
In love's disport.

O frail as fair! though in the white
Of flameful heat with force to fight,
Art thou by careless hands cast down
Or killed, when frozen hearts disown
The children born of love and light
In love's disport.

WALTER CRANE.

"WHAT MAKES THE WORLD?"

What makes the world, Sweetheart, reply?
A space of lawn, a strip of sky,
The bread and wine of fellowship,
The cup of life for love to sip,
A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eye

So let the days and hours go by,
Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny,
With feathered heel shall fancy trip--
What makes the world?

The wealth that never in the grip
Of blighting greed shall heedless slip,--
When bought and sold is liberty,
With worth of life and love gone by--
What makes the world?

WALTER CRANE.

"O FONS BANDUSIÆ."

O babbling Spring, than glass more clear,
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,
To-morrow shall a kid be thine
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,--
Sure sign!--of loves and battles near.

Child of the race that butt and rear!
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,--
The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Will rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling Spring!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"ON LONDON STONES."

On London stones I sometimes sigh
For wider green and bluer sky;--
Too oft the trembling note is drowned
In this huge city's varied sound;--
"Pure song is country-born,"--I cry.

Then comes the spring,--the months go by,
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I--I too!--no more am found
On London stones!

In vain! the woods, the fields deny
That clearer strain I fain would try;
Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts;--she is not shy
On London stones!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

A RONDEAU TO ETHEL.

"In teacup-times!" The style of dress
Would suit your beauty, I confess;
BELINDA-like, the patch you'd wear;
I picture you with powdered hair,--
You'd make a charming Shepherdess!

And I--no doubt--could well express
SIR PLUME'S complete conceitedness,--
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In teacup-times!"

The parts would fit precisely--yes:
We should achieve a huge success!
You should disdain and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But ... could I love you more, or less,--
"In teacup-times?"

AUSTIN DOBSON.

TO A JUNE ROSE.

O royal Rose! the Roman dress'd
His feast with thee; thy petals press'd
Augustan brows; thine odour fine,
Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine,
Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.

What marvel then, if host and guest
By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd,
Half-trembled on the half-divine,
O royal Rose!

And yet--and yet--I love thee best
In our old gardens of the West,
Whether about my thatch thou twine,
Or Her's, that brown-eyed maid of mine,
Who lulls thee on her lawny breast,
O royal Rose!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE."

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan
Of old made music sweet for man;
And wonder hushed the warbling bird,
And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,--
The rolling river slowlier ran.

Ah! would,--ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan
This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute!

But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan,
Apollo's self might pass unheard,
Or find the night-jar's note preferred ...
Not so it fared, when time began
With pipe and flute!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"IN AFTER DAYS."

In after days, when grasses high
O'er-top the stone where I shall lie,
Though ill or well the world adjust
My slender claim to honoured dust,
I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky,
I shall not hear the night-wind sigh,
I shall be mute, as all men must
In after days!

But yet, now living, fain were I
That some one then should testify,
Saying--_He held his pen in trust
To Art, not serving shame or lust._
Will none?... Then let my memory die
In after days!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"IN VAIN TO-DAY."

In vain to-day I scrape and blot:
The nimble words, the phrases neat,
Decline to mingle and to meet;
My skill is all forgone, forgot.

He will not canter, walk, or trot,
My Pegasus; I spur, I beat
In vain to-day.

And yet 'twere sure the saddest lot
That I should fail to leave complete
One poor ... the rhyme suggests "conceit!"
Alas! 'tis all too clear I'm not
In vein to-day.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED."

When Burbadge played, the stage was bare
Of fount and temple, tower and stair;
Two backswords eked a battle out;
Two supers made a rabble rout;
The Throne of Denmark was a chair!

And yet, no less, the audience there
Thrilled through all changes of Despair,
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt,
When Burbadge played!

This is the Actor's gift; to share
All moods, all passions, nor to care
One whit for scene, so he without
Can lead men's minds the roundabout,
Stirred as of old those hearers were,
When Burbadge played!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

OLD BOOKS ARE BEST.

(To J. H. P.)

Old books are best! With what delight
Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight;
On frontispiece or title-page
Of that old time, when on the stage
"Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!

And you, O friend, to whom I write,
Must not deny, e'en though you might,
Through fear of modern pirates' rage,
Old books are best.

What though the print be not so bright,
The paper dark, the binding slight?
Our author, be he dull or sage,
Returning from that distant age
So lives again, we say of right:
Old books are best.

BEVERLY CHEW.

A COWARD STILL.

A coward still: I've longed to fling
My arms about you, and to bring
My beating heart so near to thine,
That it might learn all thought of mine,
And closer to me cling.

But ere I dared do anything,
My trembling courage took to wing,
And left its bold design,
A coward still.

Poor heart: these words for ever ring,
Fair dame wins not the faint fearing;
Tho' secretly it may repine
The loss that would make life divine,
Yet it must be content to sing,
A coward still.

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

RONDEAUX OF CITIES.

I.

(Rondeau à la Boston.)

A cultured mind! Before I speak
The words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheek
With blushes of the nodding rose
That on thy breast in beauty blows,
I prithee satisfy my freak.

Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek?
Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak?
Hast thou, in short, as I suppose,
A cultured mind.

Some men require a maiden meek
Enough to eat at need the leek;
Some lovers crave a classic nose,
A liquid eye, or faultless pose;
I none of these, I only seek
A cultured mind.

II.

(Rondeau à la New York.)

A pot of gold! O mistress fair,
With eyes of brown that pass compare,
Ere I on bended knee express
The love which you already guess,
I fain would ask a small affair.

Hast thou, my dear, an ample share
Of this world's goods? Wilt thy papa[9]
Disgorge, to gild our blessedness,
A pot of gold?

Some swains for mental graces care;
Some fall a prey to golden hair;
I am not blind, I will confess,
To intellect or comeliness;
Still let these go beside, _ma chère_,
A pot of gold.

III.

(Rondeau à la Philadelphia.)

A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade!
Whose tresses mock the raven's shade,
Before I free this aching breast,
I want to set my mind at rest;
'Tis best to call a spade a spade.

What was thy father ere he made
His fortune? Was he smeared with trade,
Or does he boast an ancient crest--
A pedigree?

Brains and bright eyes are overweighed,
For wits grow dull and beauties fade;
And riches, though a welcome guest,
Oft jar the matrimonial nest;
I kiss her lips who holds displayed
A pedigree.

IV.

(Rondeau à la Baltimore.)

A pretty face! O maid divine,
Whose vowels flow as soft as wine,
Before I say upon the rack
The words I never can take back,
A moment meet my glance with thine.

Say, art thou fair? Is the incline
Of that sweet nose an aquiline?
Hast thou, despite unkind attack,
A pretty face?

Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine,
The Graces were. I won't repine
For want of pedigree, or lack
Of gold to banish Care the black,
If I can call forever mine
A pretty face.

ROBERT GRANT.

[9] Pronounced _papaire_.

COULD SHE HAVE GUESSED.

Could she have guessed my coward care?
I knew her foot upon the stair,
Her figure chained my inmost eye;
I only looked a lover's lie,--
I feigned indifference, felt despair.

My very blood leaped up, aware
Of her free step and morning air;
She raised her head, she caught my eye--
Could she have guessed?

I faced her with a chilly stare,
With words so common and so bare!
Her whispering skirts, as she went by,
Swept every sense--a thrilling sigh!
Ah, would her heart have heard my prayer
Could she have guessed?

ELAINE GOODALE.

FIRST SIGHT.

When first we met the nether world was white,
And on the steel-blue ice before her bower
I skated in the sunrise for an hour,
Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light,
Was red against the bare boughs black as night;
Then suddenly her sweet face, like a flower
Enclosed in sables from the frost's dim power,
Shone at her casement, and flashed burning bright
When first we met!

My skating being done, I loitered home,
And sought that day to lose her face again;
But love was weaving in his golden loom
My story up with hers, and all in vain
I strove to loose the threads he spun amain
When first we met!

EDMUND GOSSE.

EXPECTATION.

When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay,
When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow,
Adown the winding river I will row,
And watch the merry maidens tossing hay,
And troops of children shouting in their play,
And with my thin oars flout the fallen snow
Of heavy hawthorn blossom as I go:
And shall I see my love at fall of day
When flower-time comes?

Ah, yes! for by the border of the stream
She binds red roses to a trim alcove,
And I shall fade into her summer-dream
Of musing upon love,--nay, even seem
To be myself the very god of love,
When flower-time comes!

EDMUND GOSSE.

IN THE GRASS.

Oh! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth,
Keen with a thousand quivering sunlit fires,
Green with the sap of satisfied desires
And sweet fulfilment of your pale sad birth,
Behold! I clasp you as a lover might,
Roll on you, bathing in the noonday sun,
And, if it might be, I would fain be one
With all your odour, mystery, and light,
Oh flame of grass!

For here, to chasten my untimely gloom,
My lady took my hand and spoke my name;
The sun was on her gold hair like a flame;
The bright wind smote her forehead like perfume;
The daisies darkened at her feet; she came,
As spring comes, scattering incense on your bloom
Oh flame of grass!

EDMUND GOSSE.

BY THE WELL.

Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face,
With fingers spread, I set you like a weir
To stem this ice-cold stream in its career,--
And chill your pulses there a little space;
Brown hands, what right have you to claim the grace
To touch her head so infinitely dear?
Learn courteously to wait and to revere,
Lest haply ye be found in sorry case,
Hot hands that yearn!

But if ye pluck her flowers at my behest,
And bring her crystal water from the well,
And bend a bough for shade when she will rest,
And if she find you fain and teachable,
That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell?
In your embrace may some sweet day be found,
Hot hands that yearn!

EDMUND GOSSE.

A GARDEN PIECE.

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood,
And underneath the films and blossoms shone
Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown
To ripe magnificence in solitude;
The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed
Her shoulders with her shining hair outblown,
And dyed her robe with many a changing tone
Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood
Among the flowers;

She raised her arm up for her dove to know
That he might perch him on her lovely head;
Then I, unseen, and rising on tip-toe,
Bowed over the rose-barrier, and lo,
Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead
Among the flowers!

EDMUND GOSSE.

LOVERS' QUARREL.

Beside the stream and in the alder-shade,
Love sat with us one dreamy afternoon,
When nightingales and roses made up June,
And saw the red light and the amber fade
Under the canopy the willows made,
And watched the rising of the hollow moon,
And listened to the water's gentle tune,
And was as silent as she was, sweet maid,
Beside the stream;

Till with "Farewell!" he vanished from our sight,
And in the moonlight down the glade afar
His light wings glimmered like a falling star;
Then ah! she took the left path, I the right,
And now no more we sit by noon or night
Beside the stream!

EDMUND GOSSE.

IF LOVE SHOULD FAINT.

If Love should faint, and half decline
Below the fit meridian sign,
And shorn of all his golden dress,
His royal state and loveliness,
Be no more worth a heart like thine,
Let not thy nobler passion pine,
But with a charity divine,
Let Memory ply her soft address
If Love should faint;

And oh! this laggard heart of mine,
Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine,
Shall ache in pity's dear distress,
Until the balm of thy caress
To work the finished cure combine,
If Love should faint.

EDMUND GOSSE.

MY LOVE TO ME.

My love to me is always kind:
She neither storms, nor is she pined;
She does not plead with tears or sighs,
But gentle words and soft replies--
Dear earnests of the thought behind.

They say the little god is blind,
They do not count him quite too wise;
Yet he, somehow, could bring and bind
My love to me.

And sweetest nut hath sourest rind?
It may be so; but she I prize
Is even lovelier in mine eyes
Than good and gracious to my mind.
I bless the fortune that consigned
My love to me.

W. E. HENLEY.

WITH STRAWBERRIES.

With strawberries we filled a tray,
And then we drove away, away
Along the links beside the sea,
Where wave and wind were light and free,
And August felt as fresh as May.

And where the springy turf was gay
With thyme and balm and many a spray
Of wild roses, you tempted me
With strawberries!

A shadowy sail, silent and grey,
Stole like a ghost across the bay;
But none could hear me ask my fee,
And none could know what came to be.
Can sweethearts _all_ their thirst allay
With strawberries?

W. E. HENLEY.

A FLIRTED FAN.

A flirted fan of blade and gold
Is wondrous winsome to behold:
It seems an armoured shard to bear
The Emperor-Scarab--strange and rare,
Metallic, lustrous, jewel-cold.
Fawning and fluttering fold on fold
And scale on scale, its charm unrolled,
Lures, dazzles, slays. It thrills the air,
A flirted fan!
Ah me, that night ... I cannot scold--
_Ich grolle nicht!_ My grief untold
Shall still remain, but I will swear
Some Spanish grace, dissembled there,
Stood by her stall, she so controlled
A flirted fan.

W. E. HENLEY.

IN ROTTEN ROW.

In Rotten Row a cigarette
I sat and smoked, with no regret
For all the tumult that had been.
The distances were still and green,
And streaked with shadows cool and wet.

Two sweethearts on a bench were set,
Two birds among the boughs were met;
So love and song were heard and seen
In Rotten Row.
A horse or two there was to fret
The soundless sand; but work and debt,
Fair flowers and falling leaves between,
While clocks are chiming clear and keen,
A man may very well forget
In Rotten Row.

W. E. HENLEY.

THE LEAVES ARE SERE.

The leaves are sere, and on the ground
They rustle with an eerie sound,
A sound half-whisper and half-sigh--
The plaint of sweet things fain to die,
Poor things for which no ruth is found.

With summer once the land was crowned;
But now that autumn scatters round
Decay, and summer fancies die,
The leaves are sere.

Once, too, my thought within the bound
Of summer frolicked, like a hound
In meadows jocund with July.
And now I sit and wonder why,
With all my waste of plack and pound,
The leaves are sere!

W. E. HENLEY.

WITH A FAN FROM RIMMEL'S.

Go, happy Fan, in all the land
The happiest ... seek my lady's hand,
And, swinging at her winsome waist,
Forget for aye, so greatly graced,
The House of Odours in the Strand.

Ivory, with lilac silk outspanned,
With ruffling black sedately grand,
With bloom of eglantine o'ertraced,
Go, happy Fan.

Her kindly heart will understand,
Her gentle eyes will grow more bland
At sight of you. Away in haste,
Dear New Year's gift! Such perfect taste
As yours her praises _may_ command ...
Go, happy Fan!

W. E. HENLEY.

IF I WERE KING.

If I were king, my pipe should be premier.
The skies of time and chance are seldom clear,
We would inform them all with bland blue weather.
Delight alone would need to shed a tear,
For dream and deed should war no more together.

Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear;
Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather;
And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere,
If I were king.

But politics should find no harbour near;
The Philistine should fear to slip his tether;
Tobacco should be duty free, and beer;
In fact, in room of this, the age of leather,
An age of gold all radiant should appear,
If I were king.

W. E. HENLEY.

THE GODS ARE DEAD.

The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.

Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once ... long ago: but now the story goes,
The gods are dead.

It must be true. The world a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze.
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated--
The gods are dead.

W. E. HENLEY.

HER LITTLE FEET.

Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea,
She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded,
One shoe above the other danglingly,
And lo! a Something exquisitely graded,
Brown rings and white, distracting--to the knee!

The band was loud. A wild waltz melody
Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded.
And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free:
Her little feet.

Till she made room for some one. It was He!
A port-wine-flavoured He, a He who traded,
Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree!
A sense of injury overmastered me.
Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided
Her little feet.

W. E. HENLEY.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD.

When you are old, and I am passed away--
Passed, and your face, your golden face, is grey--
I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine,
Comforting you, a friendly star will shine
Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray.

So may it be; that so dead Yesterday,
No sad-eyed ghost, but generous and gay,
May serve your memories like almighty wine,
When you are old.

Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway
Of death the past's enormous disarray
Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign,
Live on well pleased! Immortal and divine,
Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may,
When you are old.

W. E. HENLEY.

MY BOOKS.

These are my books-a Burton old,
A Lamb arrayed against the cold
In polished dress of red and blue,
A rare old Elzevir or two,
And Johnson clothed in green and gold.

A Pope in gilded calf I sold,
To buy a Sterne of worth untold,
To cry, as bibliomaniacs do,
"These are my books!"

What though a Fate unkind hath doled
But favours few to me, yet bold
My little wealth abroad I strew,
To purchase acquisitions new,
And say by love of them controlled,
These are my books.

NATHAN M. LEVY.

MOST SWEET OF ALL.

Most sweet of all the flowers memorial
That autumn tends beneath his wasted trees,
Where wearily the unremembering breeze
Whirls the brown leaves against the blackening wall
More sweet than those that summer fed so tall
And glad with soft wind blowing overseas;
Through all incalculable distances
Of many shades that swerve and sands that crawl,
Most sweet of all!

When comes the fulness of the time to me
As yours is full to-day, O flower of mine?
Touched by her hand who evermore shall be,
While the slow planets circle for a sign,
Till periods flag and constellations fall,
Most sweet of all!

"_Love in Idleness._"

THE REDBREAST.

In country lanes the robins sing,
Clear-throated, joyous, swift of wing,
From misty dawn to dewy eve
(Though cares of nesting vex and grieve)
Their little heart-bells ring and ring.

And when the roses say to Spring:
"Your reign is o'er" when breezes bring
The scent of spray that lovers weave
In country lanes,

The redbreast still is heard to fling
His music forth; and he will cling
To Autumn till the winds bereave
Her yellowing trees, nor will he leave
Till Winter finds him shivering
In country lanes.

C. H. LÜDERS.

TO Q(UINTUS) H(ORATIUS) F(LACCUS).

To Q. H. F. the idle band
Of poetasters oft has planned
Tributes of praise--and penned them, too--
For love of verse that keeps its hue
Though dead its language and its land.

True, Pegasus has ever fanned
The ether at a bard's command,
But ah! how eagerly he flew
To Q. H. F.

Not oversweet or overgrand
Your poems, Horace, hence your stand
Firm in the hearts of men: and few
Have gained a place so clearly due,
Since Death with unrelenting hand,
Took you, H. F.