1874.

A TEAR.

THERE's a tear in her eye,

Such a clear little jewel!
What can make her cry?
There's a tear in her eye.
"Puck has killed a big fly,-

And it's horribly cruel;"
There's a tear in her eye,-
Such a clear little jewel!

A GREEK GIFT.

HERE's a present for Rose,
How pleased she is looking!
Is it verse?-is it prose?

Here's a present for Rose !
"Plats," Entrées," and "Rôts,”

99 66

Why, it's "Gouffé on Cooking "1

Here's a present for Rose,

How pleased she is looking!

"URCEUS EXIT."

I INTENDED an Ode,

And it turned to a Sonnet.

It began à la mode,

I intended an Ode;

But Rose crossed the road

In her latest new bonnet ;

I intended an Ode,

And it turned to a Sonnet.

THE WANDERER.

(RONDEL.)

L

OVE 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 heart once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

1878.

"VITAS HINNULEO."

(RONDEL.)

YOU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

You

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh, It vainly strives its fears to smother ;

Its trembling knees assail each other
When lizards stir the bramble dry ;-
You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

1877.

And yet no Libyan lion I,—

No ravening thing to rend another; Lay by your tears, your tremors by

A Husband's better than a brother; Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

"ON LONDON STONES."

(RONDEAU.)

ON

N London stones I sometimes sigh
For wider green and bluer sky;—
Too oft the trembling note is drowned
In this huge city's varied sound ;—
"Pure song is country-born”—I cry.

Then comes the spring,-the months go by,
The last stray swallows seaward fly;

And I-I too !-no more am found
On London stones!

In vain !-the woods, the fields deny
That clearer strain I fain would try ;

Mine is an urban Muse, and bound
By some strange law to paven ground;
Abroad she pouts ;—she is not shy
On London stones!