A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO.

"Le temps le mieux employé est celui qu'on perd."

CLAUDE TILLIER.

I

Were fast a mist becoming;

In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed,
And filled the room with humming,

"So Plato is." "Then read him — do ;

And I'll read mine in answer.

99

I read.

66

My Plato (Plato, too,

That wisdom thus should harden!) Declares blue eyes look doubly blue

6

She smiled. "My book in turn avers

(No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers

Are sadly mis-translated."

"But hear, the next 's in stronger style:

The Cynic School asserted

That two red lips which part and smile

May not be controverted!

She smiled once more

66

My book, I find,

Observes some modern doctors

Would make the Cynics out a kind

Of album-verse concoctors."

6

Then I"Why not? Ephesian law,

No less than time's tradition,

Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
DIANA'S apparition.'”

No wiser precept teaches,

Then I'd renounce that doubtful sage,

And walk to Burnham-beeches."

"Agreed," I said.

"For Socrates

(I find he too is talking)

Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking."

She read no more. I leapt the sill: The sequel's scarce essentialNay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential.

THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.

POOR Rose! I lift you from the street —

Far better I should own you,

Than you should lie for random feet, Where careless hands have thrown you!

Poor pinky petals, crushed and torn!
Did heartless Mayfair use you,
Then cast you forth to lie forlorn,
For chariot wheels to bruise you?

I saw you last in Edith's hair.
Rose, you would scarce discover
That I she passed upon the stair
Was Edith's favoured lover,

'Twixt you and me, my Rose, you know, She might have been politer;

But let that pass. She gave you then

Behind the oleander ·

-

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,
Lit up his cynical cigar,

And tossed you downward, scorning.

Kismet, my Rose ! Revenge is sweet,

She made my heart-strings quiver;

And yet

You sha'n't lie in the street,

I'll drop you in the River.