Puslapio vaizdai

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
That two red lips which part and smile

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.”

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Then I—" Why not? ' Ephesian law,

No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw

DIANA's apparition.'”

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)

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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

Profoundly confidential.




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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,

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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,
With just the same Arcadian look

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.



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.
“No need for looking, Yellow-bill ;
Young Frank was there an hour ago,
Half frozen, waiting in the snow ;
His callow beard was white with rime,-
'Tchuck,—'tis a merry pairing-time !"

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.

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