A SONG TO THE LUTE WHEN HEN first I came to Court, When first I came to Court, I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy, A sport whereat a man might toy Too soon I found my fault, Too soon I found my fault; When SILVIA's eyes assail, Fa la ! When SILVIA's eyes assail, No feint the arts of war can show, No counterstroke avail; Naught skills but arms away to throw, And kneel before that lovely foe, When SILVIA's eyes assail! A SONG TO THE LUTE Yet is all truce in vain, Fa la ! Yet is all truce in vain, Since she that spares doth still pursue And naught remains for man to do A GARDEN SONG (TO W. E. H.) HERE, in this sequestered close, Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock All the seasons run their race Here, in alleys cool and green, Sounds of toil and turmoil are. A GARDEN SONG Here be shadows large and long; Now that none profane is nigh,— Now that mood and moment please,— Find the fair Pierides! A CHAPTER OF FROISSART (GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR) You don't know Froissart now, young folks, γου This age, I think, prefers recitals Of high-spiced crime, with "slang " for jokes, But, in my time, when still some few Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's Homer (Nay, thought to style him "poet" too, Were scarce misnomer), Sir John was less ignored. Indeed, For, by this copy,-hangs a Tale. Long since, in an old house in Surrey, Where men knew more of "morning ale" Than "Lindley Murray," |