Salad in our garden grown,
Endive, beetroot,—all our own;
Bread,—we saw it made and how;
Milk and cream,- we know the cow;

or "Vis "

Nothing here of "Force"
As at Megalopolis !

After, surely, there should be,
Somewhere, seats beneath a tree,
Where we 'twixt the curling rings-
Dream of transitory things;
Chiefly of what people miss
Drowsed in Megalopolis!

Then, before the sunlight wanes,
Comes the lounge along the lanes ;
Comes the rocking shallop tied
By the reedy river-side ;-
Clearer waves the light keel kiss
Than by Megalopolis!

So we speed the golden hours
In this Hermitage of ours
(Hermits we are not, believe!
Every Adam has his Eve,
Loved with a serener bliss
Than in Megalopolis):-

So-until the shadows fall:

Then Good Night say each and all;
Sleep secure from smoke and din,
Quiet Conscience tucks us in;
Ah, they nothing know of this,—
They of Megalopolis!

(Thus URBANUS to his Wife
Babbled of The Simple Life.
Then-his glances unawares
Lighting on a List of Shares-
Gulping all his breakfast down,
Bustled, by the Train, to Town.)

1905.

THE PASSIONATE PRINTER TO
HIS LOVE

(WHOSE NAME IS AMANDA)

[With Apologies to the Shade of Christopher Marlowe.]

COME

COME live with me and be my Dear;
And till that happy bond shall lapse
I'll set your Poutings in Brevier,
Your Praises in the largest CAPS.

There's Diamond-'tis for your Eyes;
There's Ruby-that will match your Lips;
Pearl, for your Teeth; and Minion-size
To suit your dainty Finger-tips.

In Nonpareil I'll put your Face;

In Rubric shall your Blushes rise; There is no Bourgeois in your Case;

Your Form can never need "Revise."

Your Cheeks seem "Ready for the Press";

Your Laugh as Clarendon is clear; There's more distinction in your Dress Than in the oldest Elzevir.

So with me live, and with me die;
And may no "FINIS" e'er intrude
To break into mere "Printers' Pie"
The Type of our Beatitude!

(ERRATUM. If my suit you flout,

And choose some happier Youth to wed, 'Tis but to cross AMANDA out,

And read another name instead.)

249

AMANDUS TYPOGRAPHICUS.

H 2

TO MYRTALÉ

(WITH HIS VERSES)

MYRTALÉ, when I am gone

(Who was once Anacreon),

Lay these annals of my heart
In some secret shrine apart;
Into it put all my sighs,
All my lover's litanies,
All my vows and protestations,
All my jealous accusations,
All my hopes and all my fears,
All the tribute of my tears,—
Let it all be there inurned,
All my passion as it burned;
Label it, when I am gone,
"Ashes of Anacreon."