"Hæc decies repetita [non] placebit."-ARS POETICA.

FLACC

LACCUS, you write us charming songs:
No bard we know possesses

In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;

No man can say that Life is short
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;

Or touch, with more serene distress,
On Fortune's ways erratic;

And then delightfully digress.

From Alp to Adriatic:

All this is well, no doubt, and tends

Barbarian minds to soften;

But, HORACE we, we are your friends-
Why tell us this so often?

Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places ?

Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:
Sing Lyde's lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—

O, spare to sing, what none deny,
That things we love decay;
That Time and Gold have wings to fly ;-
That all must Fate obey!

Or bid us dine-on this day week-
And pour us, if you can,
As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost Cæcuban ;—

Of that we fear not overplus ;

But your didactic 'tap'— Forgive us!-grows monotonous;

Nunc vale!

Verbum sap.

VERSES TO ORDER

(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY)

HOW weary 'twas to wait! The year
Went dragging slowly on;

The red leaf to the running brook
Dropped sadly, and was gone;
December came, and locked in ice
The plashing of the mill;

The white snow filled the orchard up;
But she was waiting still.

Spring stirred and broke.

'Gan cawing in the loft;

The rooks once more

The young lambs' new-awakened cries
Came trembling from the croft ;
The clumps of primrose filled again
The hollows by the way;

The pale wind-flowers blew; but she
Grew paler still than they.

How weary 'twas to wait!

With June,

Through all the drowsy street,

Came distant murmurs of the war,
And rumours of the fleet;

The gossips, from the market-stalls,
Cried news of Joe and Tim;

But June shed all her leaves, and still
There came no news of him.

And then, at last, at last, at last,
One blessed August morn,
Beneath the yellowing autumn elms,
Pang-panging came the horn;
The swift coach paused a creaking-space,
Then flashed away, and passed;

But she stood trembling yet, and dazed
The news had come-at last!

And thus the artist saw her stand,
While all around her seems
As vague and shadowy as the shapes.
That flit from us in dreams;
And naught in all the world is true,
Save those few words which tell
That he she lost is found again—
Is found again—and well!

A LEGACY

H, Postumus, we all must go:

AH

This keen North-Easter nips my shoulder;

My strength begins to fail; I know

You find me older;

I've made my Will. Dear, faithful friend-
My Muse's friend and not my purse's !
Who still would hear and still commend
My tedious verses,—

The venal,—

How will you live-of these deprived?
I've learned your candid soul.
The sordid friend had scarce survived
A test so penal;

But you-Nay, nay, 'tis so. The rest
Are not as you: you hide your merit;
You, more than all, deserve the best
True friends inherit;—

Not gold, that hearts like yours despise;
Not "spacious dirt" (your own expression),
No; but the rarer, dearer prize-

The Life's Confession!