Puslapio vaizdai
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A RONDEAU TO ETHEL,

(Who wishes she had lived

"In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn.")

"IN teacup-times !" The style of dress

Would suit your beauty, I confess; BELINDA-like, the patch you'd wear ; I picture you with powdered hair,You'd make a charming Shepherdess !

And I-no doubt-could well express
SIR PLUME'S Complete conceitedness,—
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In teacup-times!"

The parts would fit precisely—yes:
We should achieve a huge success !
You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But... could I love you more, or less,—
"In teacup-times ?"

1878.

O

"O FONS BANDUSIÆ."

(RONDEAU.)

BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear,
Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,

To-morrow shall a kid be thine

With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,— Sure sign-of loves and battles near.

Child of the race that butt and rear !

Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—
The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Will rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,

O babbling Spring!

"VIXI PUELLIS."

(RONDEAU OF VILLON.)

WE loved of yore, in warfare bold,

Nor laurelless. Now all must go;

Let this left wall of Venus show

The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold, And Memphis free from Thracian snow, Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite,-smite but once that pretty scold We loved of yore!

1877.

"WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE."

WE

(VILLANELLE.)

WHEN I saw you last, Rose,
You were only so high ;-

How fast the time goes!

Like a bud ere it blows,
You just peeped at the sky,

When I saw you last, Rose !

Now your petals unclose,

Now your May-time is nigh ;

How fast the time goes!

And a life,-how it grows !
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose !

In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes!)

1877.

Is it Cupid? Who knows!
Yet you used not to sigh,
When I saw you last, Rose ;-
How fast the time goes!

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