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THE WANDERER.

(RONDEL.)

L

OVE comes back to his vacant dwelling,–

The old, old Love that we knew of yore ! We see him stand by the open door, With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling,

He fain would lie as he lay before ;Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,

The old, old Love that we knew of yore !

Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling

That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore !

E'en as we doubt in our heart once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

1878.

« VITAS HINNULEO.”

(RONDEL.)

You

TOU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh,

It vainly strives its fears to smother ;

Its trembling knees assail each other

When lizards stir the bramble dry ;

You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

And yet no Libyan lion I,

No ravening thing to rend another ; Lay by your tears, your tremors by

A Husband's better than a brother ; Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

“ON LONDON STONES.”

(RONDEAU.)

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 !

“FAREWELL, RENOWN!"

(RONDEAU.)

FAREWELL, Renowo L. Too fleeting flower,

a year to last an hour;Prize of the race's dust and heat,

Too often trodden under feet,
Why should I court your " barren dower”?

Nay ;-had I Dryden's angry power,-
The thews of Ben,- the wind of Gower,-
Not less my voice should still repeat

“Farewell, Renown !"

Farewell ! Because the Muses' bower
Is filled with rival brows that lower ;

Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,

The Bard, that “pays," must please the street ;But most ... because the grapes are sour,

Farewell, Renown!

“MORE POETS YET!"

(RONDEAU.)

“M

ORE Poets yet !”—I hear him say,

Arming his heavy hand to slay ;“Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,'

They seem to sprout where'er I go ;I killed a host but yesterday !”

Slash on, O Hercules! You may.
Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray ;
And though you cut, not less will grow

More Poets yet !

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?

Who shall out-blot the morning glow ?

Or stem the full heart's overflow? Who? There will rise, till Time decay,

More Poets yet !

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