Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting,- Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, LAWRENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her,— LAWRENCE. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, Crowned with a sweet, continual control, Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely E'en to her own nobility of soul. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. 93 FRANK. Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, LAWRENCE. "Jack's sister Florence!" Never, Francis, never. Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant. She like the country! Ah, she's far too clever FRANK. There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent. LAWRENCE. You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. Sorry to differ. Jack,-the word 's with you. FRANK. How is it, Umpire? Though the motto 's threadbare, 66 Cælum, non animum "—is, I take it, true. JACK. "Souvent femme varie," as a rule, is truer ; Flattered, I'm sure,-but both of you romance. Happy to further suit of either wooer, Merely observing—you have n't got a chance. Yes. But the Pipe LAWRENCE. FRANK. The Pipe is what we care for, JACK. Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore,— Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon,) Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, I watched you saunter round the garden. I saw you bend beside the phlox, Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle; You paused beneath the cherry-tree, And narrowly escaped a stinging; Dropped on the seat before the peaches. What was your thought? You waited long. A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song? Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, So long as speech renown disperses, Illustrious as the spot where heThe gifted Blank-composed his verses. THE POET. Madam,-whose uncensorious eye Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, Some verse as whimsical as Hood, As gay as Praed,--should answer to you. But, though the common voice proclaims And dreams a "local habitation"; Believe me there are tuneless days, When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. |