Puslapio vaizdai
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"TU NE QUAESIERIS.”

(VILLANELLE.)

EEK not, O Maid, to know

S'

(Alas! unblest the trying!) When thou and I must go.

No lore of stars can show.
What shall be, vainly prying,
Seek not, O Maid, to know.

Will Jove long years bestow ?---
Or is 't with this one dying,
That thou and I must go ;

Now, when the great winds blow, And waves the reef are plying? . . Seek not, O Maid, to know.

Rather let clear wine flow,
On no vain hope relying;
When thou and I must go

1877.

Lies dark ;-then be it so.

Now,-now, churl Time is flying;

Seek not, O Maid, to know
When thou and I must go.

THE PRODIGALS.

(BALLADE: IRREGULAR.)

"PRINCES!—and you, most valorous,

Nobles and Barons of all degrees!

Hearken awhile to the prayer of us,-
Beggars that come from the over-seas!
Nothing we ask or of gold or fees;
Harry us not with the hounds we pray ;
Lo,-for the surcote's hem we seize,―
Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!"

"Dames most delicate, amorous!

Damosels blithe as the belted bees!

Hearken awhile to the

prayer of us,

Beggars that come from the over-seas!
Nothing we ask of the things that please;

Weary are we, and worn, and gray;

Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees,Give us―ah! give us-but Yesterday!"

"Damosels-Dames, be piteous !"

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) "Hear us, O Knights magnanimous !"

(But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.)

Nothing they gat or of hope or ease, But only to beat on the breast and say:"Life we drank to the dregs and lees; Give us―ah! give us—but Yesterday!"

ENVOY.

YOUTH, take heed to the prayer of these ! Many there be by the dusty way,—

Many that cry to the rocks and seas

"Give us―ah! give us-but Yesterday !"

1876.

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE

MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.

(BALLADE.)

'HICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white,

CHICnted

Painted by Carlo Vanloo,

Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;

Hark to the dainty frou-frou!

Picture above, if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew,

This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the Eil de Bauf through,

Courtiers as butterflies bright,

Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous !

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