"WHEN FINIS COMES."

(TO A. K.)

WHEN Finis comes, the Book we close,

And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes,

With backward step, from stage to stage

Of that accomplished pilgrimage . . .

The thorn lies thicker than the rose !

There is so much that no one knows,

So much un-reached that none suppose;

What flaws! what faults!-on every page,

When Finis comes.

Still, they must pass! The swift Tide flows.

Though not for all the laurel grows,

Perchance, in this be-slandered age,

The worker, mainly, wins his wage ;

And Time will sweep both friends and foes

When FINIS comes!

THE IDYLL OF THE CARP.

(THE SCENE is in a garden,-where you please,
So that it lie in France, and have withal
Its gray-stoned pond beneath the arching trees,
And Triton huge, with moss for coronal.
A PRINCESS,-feeding Fish. To her DENISE.)

THE PRINCESS.

These, DENISE, are my Suitors!

DENISE.

Where?

THE PRINCESS.

These fish.

I feed them daily here at morn and night

With crumbs of favour,-scraps of graciousness,

Not meant, indeed, to mean the thing they wish,

But serving just to edge an appetite.

(Throwing bread.)

Make haste, Messieurs! Make haste, then! Hurry.

See,

See how they swim! Would you not say, confess,

Some crowd of Courtiers in the audience hall,

When the King comes?

DENISE.

You're jesting!

THE PRINCESS.

Not at all.

Watch but the great one yonder! There's the Duke;—

Those gill-marks mean his Order of St. Luke;

Those old skin-stains his boasted quarterings.

Look what a swirl and roll of tide he brings;

Have you not marked him thus, with crest in air.

Breathing disdain, descend the palace-stair?

You surely have, DENISE.

DENISE.

I think I have.

But there's another, older and more grave,—

The one that wears the round patch on the throat,

And swims with such slow fins. Is he of note?

THE PRINCESS.

Why that's my good chambellan—with his seal.

A kind old man !—he carves me orange-peel

In quaint devices at refection-hours,

Equips my sweet-pouch, brings me morning flowers,

Or chirrups madrigals with old, sweet words,
Such as men loved when people wooed like birds

And spoke the true note first. No suitor he,

Yet loves me too,—though in a graybeard's key.

DENISE.

Look, Madam, look !—a fish without a stain !

O speckless, fleckless fish! Who is it, pray,

That bears him so discreetly?

THE PRINCESS.

FONTENAY.

You know him not? My prince of shining locks!

My pearl!-my Phoenix!-my pomander-box!

He loves not Me, alas! The man's too vain!

He loves his doublet better than my suit,-
His graces than my favours. Still his sash
Sits not amiss, and he can touch the lute

Not wholly out of tune

DENISE.

Ai! what a splash!

Who is it comes with such a sudden dash

Plump in the midst, and leaps the others clear?

THE PRINCESS.

Ho! for a trumpet! Let the bells be rung!