What has she not that those have got,

The dames that walk in silk!

If she undo her 'kerchief blue,
Her neck is white as milk.

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!
Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Let those who will be proud and chill! For me, from June to June,

My Dolly's words are sweet as curds— Her laugh is like a tune;—

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

Break, break to hear, O crocus-spear!
O tall Lent-lilies flame!

There'll be a bride at Easter-tide,

And Dolly is her name.

With a hey, Dolly! ho, Dolly!

Dolly shall be mine,

Before the spray is white with May,
Or blooms the eglantine.

AN EASTERN APOLOGUE

(TO E. H. P.)

MELIK the Sultán, tired and wan,

Nodded at noon on his diván.

Beside the fountain lingered near
JAMÍL the bard, and the vizier—

Old YUSUF, sour and hard to please; Then JAMIL sang, in words like these.

Slim is Butheina-slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!

"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between, 66 Lean, if you will,-I call her lean."

Sweet is Butheina-sweet as wine, With smiles that like red bubbles shine!

"True, by the Prophet!" YUSUF said. "She makes men wander in the head!"

Dear is Butheina-ah! more dear

Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, "Dear. . and yet always to be bought."

So JAMIL ceased.

But still Life's page

Shows diverse unto YOUTH and AGE:

And-be the song of ghouls or gods—
TIME, like the Sultán, sits. . and nods.

1881.

A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC

OLD it is, and worn and battered,

As I lift it from the stall;

And the leaves are frayed and tattered, And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced and blackened by a ball.

'Tis the tale of grief and gladness
Told by sad St. Pierre of yore,
That in front of France's madness
Hangs a strange seductive sadness,
Grown pathetic evermore.

And a perfume round it hovers,
Which the pages half reveal,

For a folded corner covers,
Interlaced, two names of lovers,—
A "Savignac" and "Lucile."

As I read I marvel whether,

In some pleasant old château, Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With the shining Loire below?

Nooked-secluded from espial,

Did Love slip and snare them so, While the hours danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant old château?

Did it happen that no single

Word of mouth could either speak? Did the brown and gold hair mingle, Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle To the shock of cheek and cheek?

Did they feel with that first flushing
Some new sudden power to feel,
Some new inner spring set gushing
At the names together rushing
Of "Savignac" and "Lucile"?