A SONG TO THE LUTE

first I

WHEN came to Court,

Fa la !

When first I came to Court,
I deemed Dan Cupid but a boy,
And Love an idle sport,

A sport whereat a man might toy
With little hurt and mickle joy—
When first I came to Court!

Too soon I found my fault,
Fa la !

Too soon I found my fault;
The fairest of the fair brigade
Advanced to mine assault.
Alas! against an adverse maid
Nor fosse. can serve nor palisade-
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!

Yet is all truce in vain,

Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;

And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain!

R

A GARDEN SONG

(TO W. E. H.)

HERE, in this sequestered close,

Bloom the hyacinth and rose;

Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.

All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,-
More had not Alcinous !

Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else-afar

Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,

Now that none profane is nigh,—

Now that mood and moment please,— Find the fair Pierides!

A CHAPTER OF FROISSART

γου

(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR)

don't know Froissart now, young folks, This age, I think, prefers recitals

Of high-spiced crime, with "slang " for jokes,
And startling titles;

But, in my time, when stiil 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,
I can recall how Some-one present
(Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read,
And find him pleasant;

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,"