Life and all light? - but rocking so,
In the dull garden-corner,
The lonely swinger seemed to grow
More piteous and forlorner.

Then, as I looked, across the wall
Of "next-door's" garden, that is—
To speak correctly through its tall
Surmounting fence of lattice,
Peeped a boy's face, with curling hair,
Ripe lips half drawn asunder,
And round, bright eyes, that wore a stare
Of frankest childish wonder.

Rounder they grew by slow degrees,

Until the swinger, swerving,
Made, all at once, alive to these
Intentest orbs observing,
Gave just one brief, half-uttered cry,
And as with gathered kirtle,
Nymphs fly from Pan's head suddenly
Thrust through the budding myrtle-

Fled in dismay. A moment's space,
The eyes looked almost tragic;

Then, when they caught my watching face,

Vanished as if by magic;

And, like some sombre thing beguiled

To strange, unwonted laughter,

The gloomy garden, having smiled,
Became the gloomier after.

ACT THE SECOND.

Yes they were gone, the stage was bare,Blank as before; and therefore,

Sinking within the patient's chair,

Half vexed, I knew not wherefore,
I dozed; till, startled by some call,
A glance sufficed to show me,
The boy again above the wall,
The girl erect below me.

The boy, it seemed, to add a force
To words found unavailing,

Had pushed a striped and spotted horse
Half through the blistered paling,

Where now it stuck, stiff-legged and straight,

While he, in exultation,

Chattered some half-articulate

Excited explanation.

Meanwhile, the girl, with upturned face,

Stood motionless, and listened;
The ill-cut frock had gained a grace,
The pale hair almost glistened;
The figure looked alert and bright,
Buoyant as though some power
Had lifted it, as rain at night
Uplifts a drooping flower.

The eyes had lost their listless way,-
The old life, tired and faded,
Had slipped down with the doll that lay
Before her feet, degraded;

She only, yearning upward, found
In those bright eyes above her
The ghost of some enchanted ground
Where even Nurse would love her.

Ah, tyrant Time! you hold the book,
We, sick and sad, begin it;
You close it fast, if we but look

Pleased for a meagre minute;
You closed it now, for, out of sight,
Some warning finger beckoned;
Exeunt both to left and right; —
Thus ended Act the Second.

ACT THE THIRD.

Or so it proved. For while I still
Believed them gone forever,
Half raised above the window sill,
I saw the lattice quiver;

And lo, once more appeared the head,

Flushed, while the round mouth pouted,
"Give Tom a kiss," the red lips said,
In style the most undoubted.

The girl came back without a thought,
Dear Muse of Mayfair, pardon,
If more restraint had not been taught
In this neglected garden;

For these your code was all too stiff,
So, seeing none dissented,
Their unfeigned faces met as if
Manners were not invented.

Then on the scene, - by happy fate,
When lip from lip had parted,
And, therefore, just two seconds late, -
A sharp-faced nurse-maid darted;
Swooped on the boy, as swoops a kite

Upon a rover chicken,

And bore him sourly off, despite
His well directed kicking.

The girl stood silent, with a look
Too subtle to unravel,

Then, with a sudden gesture took,
The torn doll from the gravel;
Hid the whole face, with one caress,
Under the garden-bonnet,
And, passing in, I saw her press
Kiss after kiss upon it.

Exeunt omnes. End of play.

It made the dull room brighter,

The Gladiator almost gay,

And e'en "The Lancet" lighter.

AN AUTUMN IDYLL.

"Sweet Themmes! runne softly, till I end my song."

LAWRENCE. FRANK. JACK.

LAWRENCE.

SPENSER.

HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses,
Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore.

Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses;
Here let us sit. We landed here before.

FRANK.

Jack 's undecided. Say, formose puer,

Bent in a dream above the "water wan,"

Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer,

There by the pollards, where you see the swan ?

JACK.

Hist! That's a pike. Look - nose against the river

Gaunt as a wolf, — the sly old privateer! Enter a gudgeon. Snap,-a gulp, a shiver;Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here.

FRANK (in the grass).

Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper
Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun;
Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper,
Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun!

LAWRENCE.

Sing to us then. Damotas in a choker,
Much out of tune, will edify the rooks.

FRANK.

Sing you again. So musical a croaker
Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks.

JACK.

Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas! am old.

Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ;

Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told.

FRANK.

Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper,
Well, Lawrence, shall we sing?

Say-by a week.

LAWRENCE.

Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper,
Let him declare the prize he has to bring.

JACK.

Hear, then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted
First in the song, a Pipe I will impart; -

This, my Belovèd, marvellously mounted,
Amber and foam, a miracle of art.

LAWRENCE.

Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers,
Grant me a soft alliterative song!

FRANK.

Me too, O Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers Sting him with gnats a summer evening long.

LAWRENCE.

Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders,

Not where the brook traditionally "purls,". No, in the Row, supreme among the riders,

Seek I the gem, the

paragon

FRANK.

of girls.

Not in the waste of column and of coping,
Not in the sham and stucco of a square,
No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping,
Stands she I honor, beautifully fair.

LAWRENCE.

Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited
Back from the brows, imperially curled;

Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid,
Holding the roof that covers in a world.

FRANK.

Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging
Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn;
Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing,
Blithe as a bird new risen from the corn.

LAWRENCE.

Best is the song with music interwoven:
Mine's a musician, - musical at heart,—
Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven,
Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart.

FRANK.

Best? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad,
Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees,

Not too divine to toss you up a salad,

Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees.

LAWRENCE.

Ah, when the thick night flares with drooping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches,

Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm.