Where every landscape-lover should, High on the gray old belfry's lead, Cool grave-stones, watched by one great yew. The long, low-latticed Manor-house. The wide door showed an antlered hall; With straggling, wind-clipped trees, and so "There," said the Rector, "from the town The Roundheads rode across the down. Sir Miles 'twas then Sir Miles's dayWas posted farther south, and lay Watching at Weymouth; but his sonRupert by name-an only one, The veriest youth, it would appear, Scrambling about for jackdaws here, Spied them a league off. People say, Scorning the tedious turret-way (Or else because the butler's care Then, Arming the hinds and serving-men "Such is the story. Shall we go? I have his portrait here below: His mother, who was dead, had been Something, I think, about the Queen, Long ere the day of that disgrace, Saddest our England yet has seen. Poor child! 1887. The last of all his race." THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE PORCH BY A SUMMER-DAY STOIC (To ARTHUR MUNBY) "Cultivons notre jardin."-VOLTAIRE ACRO CROSS my Neighbour's waste of whins You scarce can see where first begins His range of steaming furrows; I am not sad that he is great, He does not ask my pardon; My modest patch of garden. I envy not my Neighbour's trees; Whether in east or western breeze His "dry-tongued laurel patters." Though he should bind his brows at will Let Goodman Greenfat, glad to dine, I care not! Still for me the gorse For me the geese will thread the furze, The tinker's sputtering wheel that whirs And look, where smoke of gipsy huts But hark! I hear my Neighbour's drums! Some dreary deputation Of Malice or of Wonder comes In guise of Adulation. Poor Neighbour! Though you "call the tune," Of aura popularis ; Not amulets, nor epiderm As tough as armadillo's, Can shield you if Suspicion worm |