GRANDMOTHER. Another new gown, as I declare! We used to dress as became our degree- Stuff, in my time, was made to wear; Gowns we had never but two or three; Did we fancy them spoilt, if they chanced to tear? And shrink from a patch, or a darn? not we! For pleasure, a gossiping dish of tea, Or a mushroom hunt, while the dew yet hung, And no need, next day, for the doctor's feeBut things have altered since I was young. The yellow gig, and a drive to the fair; A keepsake bought in a booth on the lea; A sixpence, perhaps, to break and shareThat's how your grandfather courted me. Did your grandmother blush, do you thinknot she! When he found her, the churn and the pails among? Or your grandfather like her the less? not he! But things have altered since I was young. Envoi. Child! you pout, and you urge your plea— Better it were that you held your tongue! Maids should learn at their elders' kneeBut things have altered since I was young. MAY PROBYN. A BALLADE OF PHILOMELA. From gab of jay and chatter of crake The dusk wood covered me utterly. Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,— Sat; and I thought "She grieves for the sake In her heritage of sad memory.` But the thrushes were hushed at evening. Then I waited to hear the brown bird try," For the tongue of the singer needs must sing. And I said "The thought of the thrushes will shake With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy Tongue of the dear times dead will take To make her a living song, when sigh L' Envoi. But the bird dropped dead with only a cry: I found its tongue was withered, poor thing! Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I That the heart of the singer will break or sing. A BALLADE OF CALYPSO. The loud black flight of the storm diverges And here, of its sweet queen grown full fain, To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges. She gives him all things, counting it gain. Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges, How could Fate dissever these twain? So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urges No more the remote sea-walls immure.— But ah, for the love he shall clasp not again In the green Ogygian Isle secure. L'Envoi. Princes, and ye whose delights remain, To the one good gift of the gods hold sure, Lest ye, too, mourn, in vain, in vain, Your green Ogygian Isle secure. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS A BALLAD OF FORGOTTEN TUNES. To V. L. Forgotten seers of lost repute That haunt the banks of Acheron, By foreign willows cold and grey, Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon, Dead are the tunes of yesterday! De Coucy, is your music mute, The quaint old plain-chant woe-begone That served so many a lover's suit? Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron ! Then, sweet De Caurroy, try upon Your virginals a virelay; Or play Orlando, one pavonneDead are the tunes of yesterday! But ye whose praises none refute, Who have the immortal laurel won; Envoy. Vernon, in vain you stoop to con The slender, faded notes to-day The Soul that dwelt in them is gone: Dead are the tunes of yesterday! A. MARY F. ROBINSON. BALLADE OF A GARDEN. With plash of the light oars swiftly plying, And soft shades slender, and long lights play In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. There ever a whispering wind goes sighing, Wooing the rose as with words that pray; In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. The sweet white rose with the red rose dying, Blooms where the summer follows the May, And still on the water soft dreams stay Envoi. Before the blue of the sky grows grey And the frayed leaves fall from the faded rose, In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows. |