Puslapio vaizdai
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IN

TO BRANDER MATTHEWS

[With a Volume of Verses]

N vain to-day I scrape and blot:
The nimble words, the phrases neat,
Decline to mingle or to meet;
My skill is all foregone-forgot.

He will not canter, walk nor trot,

I spur, I beat,

My Pegasus. I spur,

In vain to-day!

And yet 'twere sure the saddest lot

That I should fail to leave complete

One poor... the rhyme suggests "conceit !' Alas! 'Tis all too clear I'm not

In vein to-day.

TO THE LATE H. C. BUNNER

[With a Volume of Verses]

WITNESS my hand (and seal thereto):

ye who wrong by word or sign,

This unprotected Muse of mine,
I wish you . . . Something else to do!

May all your bills at once fall due!

May She, whose grace you seek, decline!

Witness my hand!

But you, acute, accomplished, true
And candid, who in every line

Discern a spark (or sparks) divine,

Be blessed! There's good in store for You,

Witness my hand!

TO RICHARD WATSON GILDER

OLD

[With a Volume of Verses]

LD friends are best! And so to you
Again I send, in closer throng,

No unfamiliar shapes of song,

But those that once you liked and knew.

You surely will not do them wrong;
For are you not an old friend, too ?——
Old friends are best.

Old books, old wine, old Nankin blue ;-
All things, in short, to which belong
The charm, the grace that Time makes
strong,-

All these I prize, but (entre nous)

Old friends are best!

"GOOD LUCK TO YOUR FISHING!"

[For a Picture by Mr. G. F. WATTS, R.A.]

G

OOD luck to your fishing!
And what have you caught?
Ah, would that my wishing
Were more than a thought!
Ah, would you had caught her,
Young Chloe, for me,-
Young Chloe, the daughter
Of Proteus, the sea!

She irks me, she irks me,
With blue of her eyes;
She irks me, she irks me,
With little drawn sighs;
She lures me with laughter,
She tempts me with tears;
And hope follows after,—
Hope only, and fears!

Good luck to your fishing!

But would you had caught
That maid beyond wishing,
That maid beyond thought!
O cast the line deeper,
Deep-deep in the sea;
And catch her, and keep her,

Dan Cupid, for me!

A BALLAD OF ANTIQUARIES

'HE days decay as flowers of grass,

TH

The years as silent waters flow;

All things that are depart, alas!

As leaves the winnowing breezes strow; And still while yet, full-orbed and slow, New suns the old horizon climb,

Old Time must reap, as others sow: We are the gleaners after Time!

We garner all the things that pass,
We harbour all the winds may blow;
As misers we up-store, amass

All gifts the hurrying Fates bestow;
Old chronicles of feast and show,
Old waifs of by-gone rune and rhyme,
Old jests that made old banquets glow :-
We are the gleaners after Time!

We hoard old lore of lad and lass,

Old flowers that in old gardens grow, Old records writ on tomb and brass, Old spoils of arrow-head and bow, Old wrecks of old worlds' overthrow, Old relics of Earth's primal slime,

All drift that wanders to and fro :We are the gleaners after Time!

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