AN AUTUMN IDYLL. "Sweet Themmes ! runne softly, till I end my song." LAWRENCE. SPENSER. FRANK. JACK. LAWRENCE. HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses, Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses; FRANK. Jack's undecided. Say, formose puer, Bent in a dream above the "water wan," Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, There by the pollards, where you see the swan ? JACK. Hist! That's a pike. Look-nose against the FRANK (in the grass). Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun; Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun! LAWRENCE. Sing to us then. Damotas in a choker, FRANK. Sing you again. So musical a croaker JACK. Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. FRANK. Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper, Say by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing? LAWRENCE. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted LAWRENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, FRANK. Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. LAWRENCE. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, Not where the brook traditionally "purls," No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, Lawrence. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn. LAWRENCE. Best is the song with the music interwoven : Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. FRANK. Best? You should hear mine thrilling out a ballad, Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad, Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. LAWRENCE. Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, - Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, LAWRENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her Round with so delicate divinity, that men, Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, Bend to the goddess, manifest again. FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, Cynics to boot. I know the children run, Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, Save that she brings the summer and the sun. LAWRENCE. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, |