ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR. CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Eyes that could melt as the dew, See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Eil de Bœuf through, Eager to sigh or to sue, This was the Pompadour's fan! Ah, but things more than polite Matters of state and of might, ENVOY. WHERE are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? -But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's Fan! A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH of the Spanish Armada. KING PHILIP had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main ; But we had bold Neptune to back us, And where are the galleons of Spain? His carackes were christened of dames And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus, For where are the galleons of Spain? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas! that his Greatness should lack us! But where are the galleons of Spain? ENVOY. GLORIANA !—the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain ; He must reach us before he can rack us, . And where are the galleons of Spain? ... A BALLAD OF HEROES. "Now all your victories are in vain." MARY F. ROBINSON. BECAUSE you passed, and now are not, — Because, in some remoter day, Your sacred dust from doubtful spot Was blown of ancient airs away, Because you perished, — must men say Your deeds were naught, and so profane Your lives with that cold burden? Nay, The deeds you wrought are not in vain! Though, it may be, above the plot That hid your once imperial clay, The deeds you wrought are not in vain! No. For while yet in tower or cot Your story stirs the pulses' play; |