BALLADE OF DEAD THINKERS.

Where's Heracitus and his Flux

Of Sense that never maketh stay? Or Thales, with whom water sucks Into itself both Clod and Clay? Or He, who in an evil Day

Nóuos and picis first employ'd; And of the Sum of Things doth say, They all are Atoms in the Void?

:

Where's grave Parmenides? Death plucks
His Beard and by the Velian Bay
Sleeps Zeno; Plato's Pen their Crux
Of One and Many doth portray.
Empedocles too, well-away,

His taste for climbing, unalloy'd
By Prudence, led him far astray:

They all are Atoms in the Void.

Where's Socrates himself, who chucks
Up Fhysics, makes of Sophists hay,

Into Induction briskly tucks,

And Definitions frames alway? The good Athenians him did slay, His Dialectic them annoy'd; And his Disciples, where are they? They all are Atoms in the Void.

Envoy,

Prince, tho' with these old names and grey
Our peace of mind be half destroyed,
Take comfort; say they what they may,
They all are Atoms in the Void.

"Love in Idleness."

A BALLADE OF ROSES.

Τὸ ̓ροδον τὸ τῶν έρωτων. When Venus saw Ascanius sleep

On sweet Cythera's snow white roses His face like Adon's made her weep,

And long to kiss him where he dozes; But fearing to disturb the boy,

She kissed the pallid blooms instead, Which blushed and kept their blush for joy, When Venus kissed white roses red.

Straight of these roses she did reap

Sufficient store of pleasant posies, And coming from Cythera's steep

Where every fragrant flower that grows is, She tossed them for the winds to toy

And frolic with till they were dead. Heaven taught the earth a fair employ When Venus kis-ed white roses red.

For each red rose the symbol deep

In its sad, happy heart encloses

Of kisses making love's heart leap,

And every summer wind that blows is

A prayer that ladies be not coy

Of kisses ere brief life be sped.

There gleamed more gold in earth's alloy
When Venus kissed white roses red.

Envoy.

All lovers true since windy Troy

Flamed for a woman's golden head, You gained surcease from life's annoy When Venus kissed white roses red.

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

A BALLADE OF DEATH.

The furious storm takes wing;
Quenched is the fiery ray;

And broken the frosty air's sting,
For these hold mutable sway:
Pain puts an end to its stay;

Ills have a time to endure;
One thing will not heal nor allay :
For death there is no cure!

For the good that the future may bring,
We strive to exist to-day.
With the veering vane we swing,
When fate sweeps fortune away:

Seldom will misery slay;

And ever will hope allure; Yet one thing endureth for aye, For death there is no cure!

Though life be an exquisite thing,

Death shatters the curious clay;

Though in frenzy we cry and we cling,

There is none who can save us that day:

So life is devoured as a prey,

And in darkness for aye will immure;

And silence for ever hath sway:

For death there is no cure!

Envoi.

O man, be ye sad, be ye gay,

In the end there is one thing sure:

Make out of life what ye may,

For death there is no cure!

HUNTER MACCULLOCH.

THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.

When verdant youth sees life afar,

And first sets out wild oats to sow, He puffs a stiff and stark cigar,

And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co. He likes not smoking yet; but though Tobacco makes him sick indeed,

Cigars and wine he can't forego :— A slave is each man to the weed.

In time his tastes more dainty are,
And delicate. Become a beau,
From out the country of the Czar

He brings his cigarettes, and lo!
He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.
Thus keener relish shall succeed

The baser liking we outgrow :A slave is each man to the weed.

When age and his own lucky star

To him perfected wisdom show,
The schooner glides across the bar,

And beer for him shall freely flow,
A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;

To which he turns in direst need,

To seek in smoke surcease of woe:A slave is each man to the weed.

Envoi.

Smokers who doubt or con or pro,

And ye who dare to drink, take heed!

And see in smoke a friendly foe :

A slave is each man to the weed.

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

THE BALLADE OF ADAPTATION.

The native drama's sick and dying,

So say the cynic critic crew:

The native dramatist is crying

66

Bring me the paste! Bring me the glue! Bring me the pen, and scissors, too!

Bring me the works of E. Augier!

Bring me the works of V. Sardou !

I am the man to write a play!"

For want of plays the stage is sighing,

Such is the song the wide world through: The native dramatist is crying

"Behold the comedies I brew!

Behold my dramas not a few!

On German farces I can prey,

And English novels I can hew;

I am the man to write a play!

There is, indeed, no use denying

That fashion's turned from old to new:

The native dramatist is crying—

"Molière, good bye! Shakespeare adieu ! I do not think so much of you. Although not bad, you've had your day, And for the present you won't do. I am the man to write a play!"

Envoi.

Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue,
A native dramatist, I say

To every cynic critic, "Pooh!

I am the man to write a play!"

BRANDER MATTHEWS.