Puslapio vaizdai




pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man;

And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,— The rolling river slowlier ran.

Ah! would,-ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan

This age of ours, too seldom stirred
With pipe and flute !

But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan,
Apollo's self might pass unheard,

Or find the night-jar's note preferred ;Not so it fared, when time began,

With pipe and flute !



(Who wishes she had lived—

"In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn.")

N teacup-times!" The style of dress
Would suit your beauty, I confess ;
BELINDA-like, the patch you'd wear ;
I picture you with powdered hair,—
You'd make a charming Shepherdess !

And I-no doubt-could well express
SIR PLUME'S complete conceitedness,—
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In teacup-times !"

The parts would fit precisely-yes:
We should achieve a huge success!
You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But... could I love you more, or less,—
"In teacup-times?"


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BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear,
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,

To-morrow shall a kid be thine

With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,—

Sure sign of loves and battles near.

Child of the race that butt and rear!

Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,-
The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Will rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling Spring!



(RONDEAU OF villon.)

E loved of yore, in warfare bold,
Nor laurelless. Now all must go;

Let this left wall of Venus show.

The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite,-smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore!





WHEN I saw you last, Rose,
You were only so high ;—

How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows,
You just peeped at the sky,

When I saw you last, Rose!

Now your petals unclose,

Now your May-time is nigh ;-
How fast the time goes!

And a life,-how it grows!
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose !

In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes!)

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