Puslapio vaizdai

To one, perhaps, of all the men,
Who best could understand her,-

Cyril that, duly flattered, took,
As only Cyril's able,

With just the same Arcadian look
He used, last night, for Mabel;

Then, having waltzed till every star
Had paled away in morning,


up his cynical cigar,

And tossed you downward, scorning.

Kismet, my Rose! Revenge is sweet,—
She made my heart-strings quiver;

And yet You shan't lie in the street,
I'll drop you in the River.


ETWEEN the berried holly-bush


The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush: "Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,― Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery ?"

The Throstle pecked the berries still.
"No need for looking, Yellow-bill;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow;
His callow beard was white with rime,-
"Tchuck,-'tis a merry pairing-time !"

"What would you?" twittered in the Wren; "These are the reckless ways of men.

I watched them bill and coo as though
They thought the sign of Spring was snow;
If men but timed their loves as we,
'Twould save this inconsistency."

"Nay, Gossip," chirped the Robin, “nay; I like their unreflective way.

Besides, I heard enough to show

Their love is proof against the snow :— 'Why wait,' he said, 'why wait for May, When love can warm a winter's day?""



"Si jeunesse savait ?—"

PLUNGE my hand among the leaves : (An alien touch but dust perceives, Nought else supposes ;)

For me those fragrant ruins raise

Clear memory of the vanished days

When they were roses.

"If youth but knew!" Ah, "if,” in truthI can recall with what gay youth,

To what light chorus,

Unsobered yet by time or change,

We roamed the many-gabled Grange,

All life before us;

Braved the old clock-tower's dust and damp

To catch the dim Arthurian camp

In misty distance;

Peered at the still-room's sacred stores,

Or rapped at walls for sliding doors

Of feigned existence.

What need had we for thoughts or cares ! The hot sun parched the old parterres And "flowerful closes";

We roused the rooks with rounds and glees, Played hide-and-seek behind the trees,— Then plucked these roses.

Louise was one-light, glib Louise,
So freshly freed from school decrees
You scarce could stop her;

And Bell, the Beauty, unsurprised
At fallen locks that scandalized
Our dear "Miss Proper:

Shy Ruth, all heart and tenderness,
Who wept-like Chaucer's Prioress,
When Dash was smitten;

Who blushed before the mildest men,
Yet waxed a very Corday when
You teased her kitten.

I loved them all. Bell first and best;
Louise the next--for days of jest

Or madcap masking;

And Ruth, I thought,-why, failing these, When my High-Mightiness should please, She'd come for asking.

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