THE

WRITERS OF VERS DE SOCIÉTÉ.

MORTIMER COLLINS.

THE KING AND THE BEGGAR MAID.

A NEW READING.

THE young King stands by his palace-gate,
O what a joy is the youth of a King!

Tired a little of splendor and state
Hark in the valley the sweet birds sing.

Like a lion's mane his yellow hair,
His eye as keen as a hawk's on the wing,
The ladies gaze and tremble there —
Ah, is it not sweet, the love of a King?

He sees the towers of his city below,
O shining river! O ships that swing!
Through wide white streets his people flow,
Hark, the bells of the Minster ring!

The beggar comes by with a nut-brown skin,
Ah, deep in the heart lies misery's sting!
has a blue to the sky akin,

Her eye

Tirra-lirra, he hears her sing.

Forward he strides as the girl he sees,

O how wild is the will of a King!

The ladies titter under the trees;
Still the bells of the Minster ring.

What the young King whispers none has heard,
Hey for the heath where the wild birds sing!
But the echo is caught of the Beggar's word:
'I love my love, and he is not a King.’

THE IVORY GATE.

Sunt geminae Somni portae; quarum altera fertur
Cornea, qua veris facilis datur exitus umbris:
Altera, candenti perfecta nitens elephanto;
Sed falsa ad cælum mittunt insomnia Manes.

VIRGIL.

WHEN, loved by poet and painter
The sunrise fills the sky,

When night's gold urns grow fainter,

And in depths of amber die

When the moon-breeze stirs the curtain,
Bearing an odorous freight-

Then visions strange, uncertain,

Pour thick through the Ivory Gate.

Then the oars of Ithaca dip so

Silently into the sea,

That they wake not sad Calypso --
And the Hero wanders free:
He breasts the ocean-furrows,
At war with the words of Fate
And the blue tide's low susurrus
Comes up to the Ivory Gate.

Or, clad in the hide of leopard,
'Mid Ida's freshest dews,
Paris, the Teucrian shepherd,
His sweet Enone woos:

On the thought of her coming bridal
Unuttered joy doth wait -

While the tune of the false one's idyl
Rings soft through the Ivory Gate.

Or down from green Helvellyn
The roar of streams I hear,
And the lazy sail is swelling

To the winds of Windermere:

That girl with the rustic bodice
'Mid the ferry's laughing freight

Is as fair as any goddess

Who sweeps through the Ivory Gate.

Ah, the vision of dawn is leisure
But the truth of day is toil:
And we pass from dreams of pleasure
To the world's unstayed turmoil,
Perchance, beyond the river

Which guards the realms of Fate,

Our spirits may dwell for ever

'Mong dreams of the Ivory Gate.

APRIL FOOLS.

COMES April, her white fingers wet with flowers,
And we might well enjoy her sunny showers,
If the malignant Fate which o'er us rules
Did not bring April Fools.

Fools who will whisper, you and I together
Ought not to wander in the sweet spring weather,
For I'm a boy and you 're a girl, and so

'Tis very wrong, you know.

To hunt for violets in meadows fair

Till April rains her diamonds on your hair,
Is really such a silly girlish fashion,

It puts them in a passion.

Youth's joy must have its grim concomitants,
Its sulky sisters and its maiden aunts.
Well, let them scowl at us, and keep their rules
We won't be April Fools.

MY THRUSH.

ALL through the sultry hours of June,
From morning blithe to golden noon,
And till the star of evening climbs
The gray-blue East, a world too soon,
There sings a Thrush amid the limes.

God's poet hid in foliage green,
Sings endless songs, himself unseen;
Right seldom comes his silent times.
Linger, ye summer hours serene!

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!

May I not dream God sends thee there,
Thou mellow angel of the air,

Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes
With music's soul, all praise and prayer?
Is that thy lesson in the limes?

Closer to God art thou than I :

His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly
Through silent æther's sunnier climes.
Ah never may thy music die!

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!

A LITTLE LECTURE.

SIT still, child, if you know the way,
Cross your white arms upon your breast;
Let the dark glory of your hair

From bands escape.

'Tis weary always to be gay;

And sweet is silence, sweet is rest:

We drink the juices of despair

From Life's crushed grape.

Why should I lecture? You are young,
And tameless as a dragon-fly

And beautiful to look upon,

And sweet to touch.

Nothing you know of nerves unstrung,
Nor can believe that you will die,
And go where other girls have gone.
I ask too much.

Pshaw! Flutter like a pretty bird,

Outrun the wind, outlaugh the brooks,
Flout the frail ferns with flying feet,
Outblush the rose;

Let your young petulant voice be heard
Joyous through all the forest-nooks.

But have you got a soul, my sweet?
Who knows? Who knows?

A GAME OF CHESS.

TERRACE and lawns are white with frost,

Whose fretwork flowers upon the panes

A mocking dream of summer, lost

'Mid winter's icy chains.