"Where's Troy?" says the poet! Look,-under the seat,

Is a nest with four eggs,-'tis the favoured retreat Of the Muscovy hen, who has hatched, I dare swear, Quite an army of chicks in that old Sedan chair!

And yet Can't you fancy a face in the frame
Of the window, some high-headed damsel or dame,
Be-patched and be-powdered, just set by the stair,
While they raise up the lid of that old Sedan chair!

Can't you fancy Sir Plume, as beside her he stands, With his ruffles a-droop on his delicate hands, With his cinnamon coat, with his laced solitaire, As he lifts her out light from that old Sedan chair?

Then it swings away slowly. Ah, many a league It has trotted 'twixt sturdy-legged Terence and Teague;

Stout fellows!-but prone, on a question of fare, To brandish the poles of that old Sedan chair!

It has waited by portals where Garrick has played; It has waited by Heidegger's "Grand Masquerade"; For my Lady Codille, for my Lady Bellair,

It has waited—and waited, that old Sedan chair!

Oh, the scandals it knows! Oh, the tales it could tell
Of Drum and Ridotto, of Rake and of Belle,—
Of Cock-fight and Levee, and (scarcely more rare!)
Of Fête-days at Tyburn, that old Sedan chair!

"Heu! quantum mutata," I say as I go.

It deserves better fate than a stable-yard, though! We must furbish it up, and dispatch it," With Care,"

To a Fine-Art Museum-that old Sedan chair!

TO AN INTRUSIVE BUTTERFLY

I

"Kill not-for Pity's sake-and lest ye slay
The meanest thing upon its upward way.'

-FIVE RULES OF BUDDHA

WATCH you through the garden walks,

I watch you float between

The avenues of dahlia stalks,

And flicker on the green;

You hover round the garden seat,

You mount, you waver.

Why,

Why storm us in our still retreat,

O saffron Butterfly!

Across the room in loops of flight
I watch you wayward go;

Dance down a shaft of glancing light,

Review my books a-row ;

Before the bust you flaunt and flit

Of "blind Mæonides

Ah, trifler, on his lips there lit
Not butterflies, but bees!

You pause, you poise, you circle up

Among my old Japan;
You find a comrade on a cup,

A friend upon a fan;

You wind anon, a breathing-while,

Around AMANDA's brow ;-
Dost dream her then, O Volatile!
E'en such an one as thou?

Away! Her thoughts are not as thine. A sterner purpose fills

Her steadfast soul with deep design

Of baby bows and frills;

What care hath she for worlds without,
What heed for yellow sun,

Whose endless hopes revolve about
A planet, ætat One

Away! Tempt not the best of wives; Let not thy garish wing

Come fluttering our Autumn lives With truant dreams of Spring! Away! Reseek thy "Flowery Land";

Be Buddha's law obeyed;

Lest Betty's undiscerning hand

Should slay . . . a future PRAED!

THE CURE'S PROGRESS

MONSIEUR the Cure down the street

Comes with his kind old face,—

With his coat worn bare, and his straggling hair, And his green umbrella-case.

You may see him pass by the little "Grande Place,
And the tiny "Hôtel-de-Ville";

He smiles, as he goes, to the fleuriste Rose,
And the pompier Théophile

He turns, as a rule, through the "Marché" cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call;

And his compliment pays to the "Belle Thérèse," As she knits in her dusky stall

There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece,

Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes

In his tails for a pain d'épice.

There's a little dispute with a merchant of fruit,

Who is said to be heterodox,

That will ended be with a "Ma foi, oui !"
And a pinch from the Curé's box.