"EM

AFTER WATTEAU

(TO F. W.)

`MBARQUONS-NOUS!” I seem to go Against my will. 'Neath alleys low

I bend, and hear across the airAcross the stream-faint music rare,— Whose "cornemuse," whose “chalumeau”?

Hark! was not that a laugh I know?
Who was it, hurrying, turned to show
The galley swinging by the stair ?——
"Embarquons-nous !"

The silk sail flaps, light breezes blow;
Frail laces flutter, satins flow;

You, with the love-knot in your hair, "Allons, embarquons pour Cythère"; You will not?

Press her, then, PIERROT,— "Embarquons-nous !"

TO ETHEL

TO ETHEL

(Who wishes she had lived

"In teacup-times of hood and hoop,
Or while the patch was worn.")

"IN teacup-times!" The style of dress
Would suit your beauty, I confess ;
BELINDA-like, the patch you'd wear ;
I picture you with powdered hair,—
You'd make a charming Shepherdess!

And I no doubt-could well express
SIR PLUME'S Complete conceitedness,-
Could poise a clouded cane with care
"In teacup-times!"

The parts would fit precisely-yes:
We should achieve a huge success!
You should disdain, and I despair,
With quite the true Augustan air;
But.. could I love you more, or less,—
"In teacup-times"?

"WHEN FINIS COMES"

WHEN

HEN 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!

"O FONS BANDUSIE"

"O FONS BANDUSIÆ"

BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine

With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,Sure sign!—of loves and battles near.

Child of the race that butt and rear!

Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling Spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,The wandering flock. This verse of mine Will rank thee one with founts divine; Men shall thy rock and tree revere,

O babbling Spring!

"EXTREMUM TANAIN"

(TO J. K.)

EFORE thy doors too long of late,
O Lyce, I bewail my fate;
Not Don's barbarian maids, I trow,
Would treat their luckless lovers so;
Thou, thou alone art obstinate.

Hast thou nor eyes nor ears, Ingrate!
Hark! how the NORTH WIND shakes thy gate!
Look! how the laurels bend with snow
Before thy doors!

Lay by thy pride,-nor hesitate,
Lest Love and I grow desperate;

If prayers, if gifts for naught must go,
If naught my frozen pallor show,—
Beware! . . . I shall not always wait
Before thy doors!