So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers. JOHN PAYNE. EN ROUTE. (Pantoum.) Here we are riding the rail, Gliding from out of the station; Man though I am, I am pale, Gliding from out of the station, Out from the city we thrust; Certain of heat and vexation, Sure to be covered with dust. Out from the city we thrust : Rattling we run o'er the bridges: Sure to be covered with dust, Stung by a thousand of midges. Rattling we dash o'er the bridges, Stung by a thousand of midges, Rushing we dash o'er the plain, Watching the clouds darkly lowering, Certain precursors of rain : Fields about here need a showering. Watching the clouds darkly lowering,Track here is high on a bankFields about here need a showering, Boy with the books needs a spank. Track here is high on a bank, Just by a wretched old hovel : Boy with the books needs a spank— "No! I don't want a new novel!" Just by a wretched old hovel, Small speck of dust in my eye. "No! I don't want a new novel !" -Babies beginning to cry.— Small speck of dust in my eye, "I will not buy papers or candy!" -Babies beginning to cry—. Oh, for a tomahawk handy! " "I will not buy papers or candy! Train boys deserve to be slain; Oh, for a tomahawk handy! Oh, for the cool of the rain ! Train boys deserve to be slain, Heat and the dust-they are choking, Oh, for the cool of the rain ! -"Gent" just behind me is joking. Heat and the dust, they are choking, Clogging and filling my pores, Ears are on edge at the rattle; "Gent" just in front of me snores, Sounds like the noise of a battle. Ears are on edge at the rattle, BRANDER MATTHEWS. IN THE SULTAN'S GARDEN. She oped the portal of the palace, The lilies breathed a sweet perfume. She stole into the garden's gloom, She thought that no one would discover; The lilies breathed a sweet perfume, She thought that no one would discover, She swiftly ran to meet her lover Beside the fountain crystal clear. But footsteps followed ever near; Ah, who is that she sees before her Beside the fountain crystal clear? 'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer. Ah, who is that she sees before her, His hand upon his scimitar Alas, what brought such dread disaster! It is her lord of Candahar, The fierce Sultan, her lord and master. Alas, what brought such dread disaster! "Your pretty lover's dead!" he criesThe fierce Sultan, her lord and master 66 ""Neath yonder tree his body lies." 'Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries(A sudden, ringing voice behind him); "Neath yonder tree his body lies—" "Die, lying dog! go thou and find him! A sudden, ringing voice behind him, A deadly blow, a moan of hate, His blood ran red as wine in chalice; "Come, love, our steeds are at the gate! She oped the portal of the palace. CLINTON SCOLLARD. RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ. My soul is sick of nightingale and rose, The perfume and the darkness of the grove; I weary of the fevers and the throes, And all the enervating dreams of love. At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove The meadows, where the simple daisy shows Her guiltless bosom to the skies aboveMy soul is sick of nightingale and rose. The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, The perfume and the darkness of the grove. I love to hear at eve the gentle dove Contented coo the day's delightful close. She sings of love and all the calm thereof,— I weary of the fevers and the throes. I love the night, who like a mother throws Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove, As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes And all the enervating dreams of love. Because my soul is sick of fancies wove Because the taste of cinnamon and clove COSMO MONKHOUSE. |