THE PRODIGALS

PRINCES!—and you, most valorous,

Nobles and Barons of all degrees!

Hearken awhile to the prayer of us,—
Beggars that come from the over-seas!
Nothing we ask or of gold or fees;
Harry us not with the hounds we pray;

Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize,—
Give us ah! give us but Yesterday!"

"Dames most delicate, amorous!

Damosels blithe as the belted bees!
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us,—

Beggars that come from the over-seas!
Nothing we ask of the things that please;

Weary are we, and worn, and gray;

Lo, for we clutch and we clasp your knees,— Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!"

"Damosels-Dames, be piteous!"

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) "Hear us, O Knights magnanimous ! "

(But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) Nothing they gat or of hope or ease,

But only to beat on the breast and say :"Life we drank to the dregs and lees; Give us ah! give us-but Yesterday!"

ENVOY.

YOUTH, take heed to the prayer of these! Many there be by the dusty way,—

Many that cry to the rocks and seas "Give us-ah! give us but Yesterday!"

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR

CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white,

Painted by Carlo Vanloo,

Loves in a riot of light,

Roses and vaporous blue;

Hark to the dainty frou-frou!
Picture above, if you can,

Eyes that could melt as the dew,—

This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,

Thronging the Eil de Bœuf through,
Courtiers as butterflies bright,

Beauties that Fragonard drew,
Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,—
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah, but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, voyez-vous!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew

Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue,—— This was the Pompadour's fan!

ENVOY.

WHERE are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? -But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's Fan!

A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH of the Spanish Armada

K

ING PHILIP had vaunted his claims;

He had sworn for a year he would sack us;

With an army of heathenish names

He was coming to fagot and stack us;

Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,

And shatter our ships on the main;

But we had bold Neptune to back us,— And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us;
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,

And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—
For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games

Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us