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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 !

Martiis cælebs quid agam Kalendis,

miraris ? - HORACE, iii, 8. CHARLES, - for it seems you wish to

You wonder what could scare me so,
And why, in this long-locked bureau,

With trembling fingers,
With tragic air, I now replace
This ancient web of yellow lace,
Among whose faded folds the trace

Of perfume lingers.

Laugh, if you like. The boy in me,-
The boy that was,

revived to see The fresh young smile that shone when


Of old, was tender.
Once more we trod the Golden Way, —
That mother you saw yesterday,
And I, whom none can well portray

As young, or slender.
She twirled the flimsy scarf about
Her pretty head, and stepping out,
Slipped arm in mine, with half a pout

Of childish pleasure.
Where we were bound no mortal knows,
For then you plunged in Ireland's woes,
And brought me blankly back to prose

And Gladstone's measure.

Friend of my youth, severe as true,

the train your thoughts pursue ; But this my state is nowise due

To indigestion ;
I had forgotten it was there,
A scarf that Some-one used to wear.
Hinc illæ lacrimæ, -So spare

Your cynic question.

Well, well, the wisest bend to Fate.
My brown old books around me wait,
My pipe still holds, unconfiscate,

Its wonted station.
Pass me the wine. To Those that keep
The bachelor's secluded sleep
Peaceful, inviolate, and deep,


I pour


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How steadfastly she worked at it !

How lovingly had drest With all her would-be-mother's wit

That little rosy nest !

How longingly she'd hung on it!

It sometimes seemed, she said, There lay beneath its coverlet

A little sleeping head.


He came at last, the tiny guest,

Ere bleak December fled ; That rosy nest he never prest ...

Her coffin was his bed.


You may see him pass by the little

Grande Place," And the tiny Hôtel-de-Ville ; He smiles as he goes to the fleuriste Rose,

And the pompier Théophile. He turns, as a rule, through the “ Marché

cool, Where the noisy fish-wives call ; And his compliment pays to the belle

Thérèse," As she knits in her dusky stall. There's a letter to drop at the locksmith's

shop, And Toto, the locksmith's niece, Has jubilant hopes, for the Curé gropes

In his tails for a pain d'épice. There's a little dispute with a merchant of

fruit, Who is said to be heterodox, That will ended be with a “ Ma foi, oui !

And a pinch from the Cure's box. There is also a word that no one heard

To the furrier's daughter Lou ; And a pale cheek fed with a flickering

red, And a Bon Dieu garde M'sieu'!But a grander way for the Sous-Préfet,

And a bow for Ma'am'selle Anne ; And a mock “off-hat” to the Notary's

cat, And a nod to the Sacristan :


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For ever through life the Curé goes

With a smile on his kind old face With his coat worn bare, and his strag

gling bair, And his green umbrella-case.

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MONSIEUR the Curé down the street

Comes with his kind old face, With his coat worn bare, and his strag

gling hair, And his green umbrella-case.


Si viellesse pouvait ! SCENE. — A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman.


M. VIEUXBOIS [turning querulously). Day of my life! Where can she get ? Babette ! I say! Babette ! - Babette !


BABETTE [entering hurriedly]. Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks So loud, he won't be well for weeks !

M. VIEUXBOIS. Where have you been ?


Why, M'sieu' knows : April ! . . . Ville-d'Avray!... Ma'am’selle Rose !

Ah! I am old, and I forget.
Was the place growing green, Babette ?

But of a greenness ! — yes, M'sieu'!
And then the sky so blue ! — so blue ! -
And when I dropped my immortelle,
How the birds sang !

[Lifting her apron to her eyes.

Ma'am'selle !
You 're a good girl, Babette, but she, –
She was an Angel, verily.
Sometimes I think I see her yet
Stand smiling by the cabinet;
And once, I know, she peeped and laughed
Betwixt the curtains .

Where's the draught ?

[She gives him a cup. Now I shall sleep, I think, Babette ; Sing me your Norman chansonnette.

BABETTE (sings].
Once at the Angelus

(Ere I was dead),
Angels all glorious

Came to my Bed ;
Angels in blue and white

Crowned on the Head.

M. VIEUXBOIS [drowsily]. She an Angel Once she

laughed . What, was I dreaming ?


Where's the draught ? BABETTE (showing the empty cup]. The draught, M'sieu' ?


How I forget!
I am so old ! But sing, Babette !

BABETTE (sings]
One was the Friend I left

Stark in the Snow;
One was the Wife that died

Long, long ago;
One was the Love I lost

How could she know?

M. VIEUXBOIS (murmuring).
Ah, Paul !... old Paul !... Eulalie too !
And Rose ...

And O!... the sky so blue !
BABETTE (sings]
One had my Mother's eyes,

Wistful and mild ;
One had my Father's face;

One was a Child :
All of them bent to me,

Bent down and smiled !
He is asleep!
M. VIEUXBOIS (almost inaudibly].

How I forget!
I am so old Good night, Babette !

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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 Beuf 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 !


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For thee the scent of new-turned mould, The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, O Singer of the field and fold !

What cable now will hold

When all drag out from shore ! What god canst thou, too bold,

In time of need implore !

Look ! for thy sails flap o'er, Thy stiff shrouds part and flee,

Fast — fast thy seams outpour,Tempt not the tyrant sea! What though thy ribs of old

The pines of Pontus bore ! Not now to stern of gold

Men trust, or painted prore !

Thou, or thou count'st it store A toy of winds to be,

Shun thon the Cyclads' roar,Tempt not the tyrant sea !

Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old, —
The beechen bowl made glad with wine ...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told, -
Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine,
O Singer of the field and fold !
And round thee, ever-laughing, rolled
The blithe and blue Sicilian brine ...
Thine was the happier Age of Gold.
Alas for us! Our songs are cold ;
Our Northern suns too sadly shine :-
O Singer of the field and fold,
Thine was the happier Age of Gold !




Ship of the State, before

A care, and now to me
A hope in my heart's core,

Tempt not the tyrant sea !


TO A GREEK GIRL WITH breath of thyme and bees that hum, Across the years you seem to come,

Across the years with nymph-like head,

And wind-blown brows unfilleted ; A girlish shape that slips the bud

In lines of unspoiled symmetry; A girlish shape that stirs the blood

With pulse of Spring, Autonoë !

O BABBLING Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,

To-morrow shall a kid be thine

Painter, that still must mix

But transient tints anew, Thou in the furnace fix

The firm enamel's hue ;

Let the smooth tile receive

Thy dove-drawn Erycine ; Thy Sirens blue at eve

Coiled in a wash of wine.

Where'er you pass, - where'er you go,
I hear the pebbly rillet flow;
Where'er you go,

where'er you pass, There comes a gladness on the grass ; You bring blithe airs where'er you tread, Blithe airs that blow from down and

sea ;
You wake in me a Pan not dead,

Not wholly dead ! — Autonoë !
How sweet with you on some green sod
To wreathe the rustic garden-god ;

How sweet beneath the chestnut's shade

With you to weave a basket-braid ; To watch across the stricken chords

Your rosy-twinkling fingers flee ;
To woo you in soft woodland words,

With woodland pipe, Autonoë !
In vain, — in vain! The years divide :
Where Thamis rolls a murky tide,

I sit and fill my painful reams,

And see you only in my dreams ; A vision, like Alcestis, brought

From under-lands of Memory,A dream of Form in days of Thought,

A dream, - a dream, Autonoë !

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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 ;

THE ladies of St. James's

Go swinging to the play ; Their footmen run before them,

With “Stand by! Clear the way !” But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

She takes her buckled shoon, When we go out a-courting

Beneath the harvest moon.

Leave to the tiro's hand

The limp and shapeless style ; See that thy form demand

The labor of the file.

The ladies of St. James's

Wear satin on their backs ; They sit all night at Ombre,

With candles all of wax : But Phyllida, my Phyllida !

She dons her russet gown, And runs to gather May dew

Before the world is down.

Sculptor, do thou discard

The yielding clay,– consign To Paros marble hard

The beauty of thy line ;

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Model thy Satyr's face

For bronze of Syracuse ; In the veined agate trace

The profile of thy Muse.

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