And bore him sourly off, despite The girl stood silent, with a look Then, with a sudden gesture took 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. SPENSER, FRANK. JACK. LAWRENCE. 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; 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, FRANK. Sing you again. So musical a croaker 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. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted Amber and foam, a miracle of art. LAWRENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers, 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 of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, LAWRENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited 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 the music interwoven : Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. FRANK. Best? You should hear mine thrilling 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 dropping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, |