Cela me met en peine extrême

Quoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cing en ême !
Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau.

En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau.
Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,
Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:
Ma joi, c'est fait.

Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau
Tirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau;
Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzime:
Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;
En voilà treize ajustés au niveau.

O HONEY OF HYMETTUS HILL.

O honey of Hymettus Hill,

Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste, Wert here for the soft amorous bill

Of Aphrodite's courser placed?

Thy musky scent what virginal chaste
Blossom was ravished to distil,
O honey of Hymettus Hill,

Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

What upturned calyx drank its fill

When ran the draught divine to waste, That her white hands were doomed to spillSweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced

O honey of Hymettus Hill,

Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

II. C. BUNNER.

READY FOR THE RIDE-1795.

Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her,
With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride,
One year ago had made her pulses stir.

Now shall no wish with any day recur
(For Love and Death part year and year full wide),
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.
No ghost there lingers of the smile that died
On the sweet pale lip where his kisses were-
Yet still she turns her delicate head aside,
If she may hear him come with jingling spur-
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.

...

H. C. BUNNER.

RONDEL.

This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold;
Each page with art and thought,
And colours manifold.

His calendar he taught

To youths and virgins cold;
This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold.

This priceless book is bought
With sighs and tears untold,

Of votaries who sought

His countenance of old

This book of hours Love wrought

With burnished letters gold.

WALTER CRANE

RONDEL.

When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies,

Love-birds forget to sing

Beneath the lucent skies.

For now belated spring

With her last blossom hies,
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies.
What summer hope shall bring
To wistful dreaming eyes?
What fateful forecast fling
Before life's last surprise?
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies.

WALTER CRANE

THE WANDERER.

(Rondel.)

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,-
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
We see him stand by the open door,

With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.
He makes as though in our arms repelling,
He fain would lie as he lay before ;-
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,-
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling,
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!
E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

19

RONDEL.

When love is in her eyes

What need of Spring for me?

A brighter emerald lies

On hill and vale and lea.

The azure of the skies

Holds nought so sweet to me;

When love is in her eyes

What need of spring for me?

Her bloom the rose outvies,
The lily dares no plea,

The violet's glory dies,

No flower so sweet can be ;

When love is in her eyes

What need of spring for me?

ANNA MARIA FAY.

RONDEL.

[After Anyte of Tegea.] Underneath this tablet rest, Grasshopper by autumn slain, Since thine airy summer nest Shivers under storm and rain. Freely let it be confessed

Death and slumber bring thee gain Spared from winter's fret and pain, Underneath this tablet rest.

Myro found thee on the plain, Bore thee in her lawny breast, Reared this marble tomb amain To receive so small a guest! Underneath this tablet rest, Grasshopper by autumn slain.

RONDEL.

How is it you and I

EDMUND GOSSE.

Are always meeting so?
I see you passing by
Whichever way I go.

I cannot say I know
The spell that draws us nigh.
How is it you and I

Are always meeting so?
Still thoughts to thoughts reply,

And whispers ebb and flow;

I say it with a sigh

But half confessed and low,
How is it you and I

Are always meeting so?

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.