TO A JUNE ROSE

(TO A. P.)

ROYAL Rose! the Roman dress'd His feast with thee; thy petals press'd Augustan brows; thine odour fine, Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.

What marvel then, if host and guest,
By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd,
Half-trembled on the half-divine,
O royal Rose !

And yet and yet I love thee best
In our old gardens of the West,

Whether about my thatch thou twine,
Or Hers, that brown-eyed maid of mine,
Who lulls thee on her lawny breast,

O royal Rose !

TO DAFFODILS

(TO A. J. M.)

YELLOW flowers by HERRICK Sung!

O yellow flowers that danced and swung In WORDSWORTH'S verse, and now to me, Unworthy, from this "pleasant lea," Laugh back, unchanged and ever young;

Ah, what a text to us o'erstrung,
O'erwrought, o'erreaching, hoarse of lung,
You teach by that immortal glee,
O yellow flowers!

We, by the Age's oestrus stung,
Still hunt the New with eager tongue,
Vexed ever with the Old, but ye,
What ye have been ye still shall be,
When we are dust the dust among,
O yellow flowers!

ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME

WIT

(TO F. G.)

ITH slower pen men used to write,
Of old, when "letters" were "polite; "

In ANNA'S, or in GEORGE's days,

They could afford to turn a phrase, Or trim a straggling theme aright.

They knew not steam; electric light
Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;-
They meted out both blame and praise
With slower pen.

Too swiftly now the Hours take flight1
What's read at morn is dead at night:

Scant space have we for Art's delays, Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, We may not work-ah! would we might !— With slower pen

"WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED"

(TO L. B.)

WHEN Burbadge played, the stage was bare

Of fount and temple, tower and stair;

Two backswords eked a battle out;

Two supers made a rabble rout; The Throne of Denmark was a chair!

And yet, no less, the audience there
Thrilled through all changes of Despair,
Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt
When Burbadge played!

This is the Actor's gift; to share
All moods, all passions, nor to care
One whit for scene, so he without
Can lead men's minds the roundabout,
Stirred as of old those hearers were

When Burbadge played!

BU

A GREETING

(TO W. C.)

UT once or twice we met, touched hands.
To-day between us both expands

A waste of tumbling waters wide,—
A waste by me as yet untried,

Vague with the doubt of unknown lands.

Time like a despot speeds his sands:
A year he blots, a day he brands;

We walked, we talked by Thamis' side
But once or twice.

What makes a friend? What filmy strands Are these that turn to iron bands?

What knot is this so firmly tied

That naught but Fate can now divide?— Ah, these are things one understands

But once or twice!