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THE WANDERER.

(RONDEL.)

L

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.

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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.

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1878.

“ VITAS HINNULEO."

(RONDEL.)

TOU shun me, Chloe, wild and shy Y As 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,

“ON LONDON STONES."

(RONDEAU.)

ON

N London stones I sometimes sigh

For wider green and bluer sky;Too oft the trembling note is drowned

In this huge city's varied sound ;“Pure song is country-born”-I cry.

Then comes the spring,--the months go by,
The last stray swallows seaward fly;
And I-I too !--no more am found

On London stones !

In vain !-the woods, the fields deny
That clearer strain I fain would try ;

Mine is an urban Muse, and bound

By some strange law to paven ground; Abroad she pouts ;-she is not shy

On London stones!

1876.

“ FAREWELL, RENOWN ?"

(RONDEAU.)

FAREWELL, Renown l Too fieeting flower,

a last an hour ;Prize of the race's dust and heat,

Too often trodden under feet,-
Why should I court your “barren dower"?

Nay ;-had I Dryden's angry power,
The thews of Ben,--the wind of Gower,-
Not less my voice should still repeat

Farewell, Renown!”

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Farewell !-Because the Muses' bower
Is filled with rival brows that lower ;-

Because, howe'er his pipe be sweet,

The Bard, that "pays," must please the street ;But most ... because the grapes are sour,

Farewell, Renown!

“MORE POETS YET!"

(RONDEAU.)

“MO

ORE Poets yet !”—I hear him say,

Arming his heavy hand to slay ;“Despite my skill and 'swashing blow,'

They seem to sprout where'er I go ;I killed a host but yesterday!”

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Slash on, O Hercules ! You may.
Your task 's, at best, a Hydra-fray ;
And though you cut, not less will grow

More Poets yet !

Too arrogant! For who shall stay
The first blind motions of the May?

Who shall out-blot the morning glow ?

Or stem the full heart's overflow? Who? There will rise, till Time decay,

More Poets yet !

1876.

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