DARBY AND JOAN DARBY dear, we are old and gray, Darby dear, when the world went wry, Darby, dear, but my heart was wild Darby, dear, 't was your loving hand Hand in hand when our life was May, Hand in hand when the long night-tide THE POET IN THE CITY THE Poet stood in the sombre town, The sound of the Spring's light tread. He thought he saw in the pearly east Out of the smoke, and noise, and sin To leave the struggle of want and wealth, And the battle of lust and pride!" He bent his ear, and he heard afar The growing of tender things, The changeless days were so sad to him, But when the time of the roses came, Thy flower enfolds no augur's brow, Nor gives thy poet strength to sing. Yet, surely, when the winds are low, The Roman honors they have known, And while they ponder Cæsar's fate They cease to marvel at their own. THEOCRITUS THE poplars and the ancient elms Make murmurous noises high in air; The noon-day sunlight overwhelms The brown cicalas basking there; But here the shade is deep, and sweet With new-mown grass and lentisk-shoots, And far away the shepherds meet With noisy fifes and flutes. Their clamor dies upon the ear; So now bring forth the rolls of song, Mouth the rich cadences, nor fear Your voice may do the poet wrong; Yet see, before we venture thus, We are in Sicily to-day; Will lose the syrinx, gain the rose ; Dark violets round her shining hair, And in the fountain laugh to find Her sun-browned face so fair. We are in Sicily to-day; Ah! foolish world, too sadly wise, Why didst thou e'er let fade away Those ancient, innocent ecstasies? Along the glens, in checkered flight, Hither to-day the nymphs shall flee, And Pan forsake for our delight The tomb of Helice. WITH A COPY OF HERRICK FRESH with all airs of woodland brooks And scents of showers, |