FOR A COPY OF "THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD"

Y GOLDSMITH's tomb the City's cry

BY

Grows faint and distant; now no more, From that famed street he trod of yore, Men turn where those old Templars lie!

Only some dreamer such as I

Pauses awhile from dust and roar

By GOLDSMITH's tomb!

And then-ah, then!-when none is nigh, What shadowy shapes, unseen before, Troop back again from Lethe's shore!— How the ghosts gather then, and sigh

By GOLDSMITH's tomb!

TH

AFTER A HOLIDAY

'HREE little ducks by a door,
Snuggling aside in the sun;
The sweep of a threshing-floor,
A flail with its One-two, One;

A shaggy-haired, loose-limbed mare,
Grave as a master at class;
A foal with its heels in the air,
Rolling, for joy, in the grass;

A sunny-eyed, golden-haired lad,
Laughing, astride on a wall;
A collie-dog, lazily glad . . .
Why do I think of it all?

Why? From my window I see,

Once more through the dust-dry pane,

The sky like a great Dead Sea,

And the lash of the London rain;

And I read here in London town,

Of a murder done at my gate, And a goodly ship gone down, And of homes made desolate;

And I know, with the old sick heart,
That but for a moment's space,
We may shut our sense, and part
From the pain of this tarrying place.

THE BALLAD OF THE BORE

[For Alma Mater's Mirror, 1887]

"Garrulus hunc quando consumet cunque."

-HOR. Sat. ix, lii,

SEE him come from far,

I

And, sick with hopelessness,

Invoke some kindly star,—
I see him come, not less.

Is there no sure recess
Where hunted men may lie?
Ye Gods, it is too hard!
I feel his glittering eye,—
Defend us from The Bard!

He knows nor let nor bar:
With ever-nearing stress,
Like Juggernaut his car,

I see him onward press;
He waves a huge MS.;
He puts evasion by,

He stands as one on guard,
And reads-how volubly!-
Defend us from The Bard!

He reads

of Fates that mar, Of Woes beyond redress, Of all the Moons that are,

Of Maids that never bless (As one, indeed, might guess); Of Vows, of Hopes too high, Of Dolours by the yard That none believe (nor buy),— Defend us from The Bard!

ENVOY.

PRINCE PHOEBUS, all must die,
Or well- or evil-starred,

Or whole of heart or scarred;
But why in this way-why?
Defend us from The Bard!