1874

A TEAR.

THERE's a tear in her eye,—

Such a clear little jewel!
What can make her cry?
There's a tear in her eye.
"Puck has killed a big fly,—
And it 's horribly cruel;"
There's a tear in her eye,—
Such a clear little jewel!

A GREEK GIFT.

HERE's a present for Rose,
How pleased she is looking!

Is it verse?-is it prose?

Here's a present for Rose !

" "Entrées," and "Rôts,”

"Plats,"

Why, it's "Gouffé on Cooking "! Here's a present for Rose,

How pleased she is looking!

66 URCEUS EXIT."

I INTENDED an Ode,

And it turned to a Sonnet.

It began à la mode,

I intended an Ode;

But Rose crossed the road

In her latest new bonnet ;
I intended an Ode,

And it turned to a Sonnet.

L

THE WANDERER.

(RONDEL.)

OVE comes back to his vacant dwelling,—

The old, old Love that we knew of yore! We see him stand by the open door,

With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling,
He fain would lie as he lay before ;-
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,—
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!

Ah, who shall help us from over-spelling
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!

E'en as we doubt in our heart once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

"VITAS HINNULEO."

(RONDEL.)

YOU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

YAs some stray fawn that seeks its mother

Through trackless woods. If spring-winds sigh, It vainly strives its fears to smother ;

Its trembling knees assail each other
When lizards stir the bramble dry ;-
You shun me, Chloe, wild and shy
As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

And yet no Libyan lion I,—

No ravening thing to rend another; Lay by your tears, your tremors by

A Husband's better than a brother;

Nor shun me, Chloe, wild and shy

As some stray fawn that seeks its mother.

ARS VICTRIX.

(IMITATED FROM THÉOPHILE GAUTIER.)

ES; when the ways oppose―

YES

When the hard means rebel,

Fairer the work out-grows,

More potent far the spell.

O Poet, then, forbear

The loosely-sandalled verse,
Choose rather thou to wear

The buskin-strait and terse;

Leave to the tiro's hand

The limp and shapeless style;

See that thy form demand

The labour of the file.

Sculptor, do thou discard

The yielding clay,-consign

To Paros marble hard

The beauty of thy line ;

Model thy Satyr's face

For bronze of Syracuse;