THE DRAMA OF THE DOCTOR'S WINDOW. And bore him sourly off, despite His well-directed kicking. The girl stood silent, with a lock Then, with a sudden gesture took And, passing in, I saw her press It made the dull room brighter, The Gladiator almost gay, And e'en "The Lancet " lighter. 87 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, Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, 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. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 89 FRANK (in the grass). Jove, what a day! Black Care upon the crupper 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 Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. FRANK. Listen, O Thames! His budding beard is riper, 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 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, AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 91 LAWRENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, 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, |