Hid the whole face, with one caress,
Under the garden-bonnet,
And, passing in, I saw her press
Kiss after kiss upon it.

Exeunt omnes. End of play.

It made the dull room brighter, The Gladiator almost gay,

And e'en "The Lancet" lighter

AN AUTUMN IDYLL

"Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song.

-SPENSER.

LAWRENCE.

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; Here let us sit. We landed here before.

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 river Gaunt as a wolf,-the sly old privateer !

Enter a gudgeon.

Snap,-a gulp, a shiver ;—

Exit the gudgeon.

Let us anchor here.

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.

Sing to us then.

The frenzy has begun!

LAWRENCE.

Damætas in a choker,

Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.

FRANK.

Sing you again. So musical a croaker
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.

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.

Listen, O Thames!

Say-by a week.

sing?

Yes, if you will.

FRANK.

His budding beard is riper,
Well, Lawrence, shall we

LAWRENCE.

But ere I play the piper,

Let him declare the prize he has to bring.

JACK.

Here then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted
First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ;-
This, my Belovèd, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam,-a miracle of art.

LAWRENCE.

Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song!

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,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square,—
No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping,
Stands she I honour, beautifully fair.

LAWRENCE.

Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;
Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid,
Holding the roof that covers in a world.

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 :
Mine's a musician,-musical at heart,——
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven,
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart.

FRANK.

Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, Queen at a picnic, 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,

Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm.