Puslapio vaizdai
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" WITH PIPE AND FLUTE."

(RONDEAU.)

WITH

TH pipe and flute the rustic Pan

Of old made music sweet for man; And wonder hushed the warbling bird,

And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,The rolling river slowlier ran.

Ah! would,--ah! would, a little span,
Some air of Arcady could fan
This age of ours, too seldom stirred

With pipe and flute !

But now for gold we plot and plan;
And from Beersheba unto Dan,

Apollo's self might pass unheard,

Or find the night-jar's note preferred ;Not so it fared, when time began,

With pipe and flute !

A RONDEAU 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 ?"

1878.

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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!

“VIXI PUELLIS.”

(RONDEAU OF VILLON.)

We loved of yore, in warfare bold,

Nor laurelless. Now all must go; Let this left wall of Venus show The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,

We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold,

And Memphis free from Thracian snow,

Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow, Smite,-smite but once that pretty scold

We loved of yore !

1877.

“WHEN I SAW YOU LAST, ROSE.”

(VILLANELLE.)

WHE

HEN I saw you last, Rose,

You were only so high ;-
How fast the time goes !

Like a bud ere it blows,

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You just peeped at the sky,
When I saw you last, Rose !

Now your petals unclose,
Now your May-time is nigh ;-
How fast the time goes !

And a life,-how it grows !
You were scarcely so shy,
When I saw you last, Rose !

In your bosom it shows
There's a guest on the sly;
(How fast the time goes !)

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