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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
May not be controverted !"
She smiled once more—“My book, I find,
Observes some modern doctors Would make the Cynics out a kind
Of album-verse concoctors.”
Then I—" Why not? ' Ephesian law,
No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw
She blushed-this time. “ If Plato's
page 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
THE ROMAUNT OF THE ROSE.
OOR 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,
A month-"a little month"-ago
O theme for moral writer ! '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,
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 shan't lie in the street,
I'll drop you in the River.
LOVE IN WINTER.
ETWEEN the berried holly-bush
The Blackbird whistled to the Thrush : “Which way did bright-eyed Bella go? Look, Speckle-breast, across the snow,Are those her dainty tracks I see, That wind beside the shrubbery?”
The Throstle pecked the berries still.
“What would you ?” twittered in the Wren; “These are the reckless ways of men. I watched them bill and coo as though They thought the sign of Spring was snow ; If men but timed their loves as we, 'Twould save this inconsistency."
“Nay, Gossip,” chirped the Robin, “nay; I like their unreflective way.