VIGNETTES IN RHYME V I V^SuS ^> vy b~ VIGNETTES IN RHYME (All Rights reserved.) VIGNETTES IN RHYME AND VERS DE SOCIETE (NOW FIRST COLLECTED) BY AUSTIN DOBSON HENRY S. KING & CO., 65 CORNHILL AND 12 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON. 1873. 3)635- tK*a/ she 's so smart, with every Ribbon new, Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy ; As proud as proud ; and has the Vapours too, Just like My Lady ; calls poor Sam a boy, And vows no Sweet-Heart 's worth the Thinking-on Till he 's past Thirty, I know better, John I 1 My dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you ; And now, why,f0/in, your least, least Finger- touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. A Dead Letter. See, for I send you Something ! There, 'tis gone ! Look in this corner, mind you find i^John!' m. This was the matter of the note, A long-forgot deposit, Dropped in an Indian dragon's throat, Deep in a fragrant closet, Piled with a dapper Dresden world, Beaux, beauties, prayers, and poses, Bonzes with squat legs undercurled, And great jars filled with roses. Ah, heart that wrote ! Ah, lips that kissed ! You had no thought or presage Into what keeping you dismissed Your simple old-world message A Dead Letter. A reverent one. Though we to-day Distrust beliefs and powers, The artless, ageless things you say Are fresh as May's own flowers, Starring some pure primeval spring, Ere Gold had grown despotic, Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, Or Love a mere exotic. I need not search too much to find Whose lot it was to send it, That feel upon me yet the kind, Soft hand of her who penned it ; And see, through two-score years of smoke, In bygone, quaint apparel, Shine from yon time-black Norway oak The face of Patience Caryl, A Dead Letter. The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed ; The gray gown, primly flowered ; The spotless, stately coif whose crest Like Hector's horse-plume towered ; And still the sweet half-solemn look Where some past thought was clinging, As when one shuts a serious book To hear the thrushes singing. I kneel to you ! Of those you were, Whose kind old hearts grow mellow, Whose fair old faces grow more fair As Point and Flanders yellow ; Whom some old store of garnered grief, Their placid temples shading, Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf With tender tints of fading. A Dead Letter. Peace to your soul ! You died unwed Despite this loving letter. And what of John ? The less that ? s said Of John, I think, the better. A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. i. HE lived in that past Georgian day, When men were less inclined to say That l Time is Gold/ and overlay With toil their pleasure ; He held some land, and dwelt thereon, Where, I forget, the house is gone ; His Christian name, I think, was John, His surname, Leisure. A Gentleman of the Old School. 1 1 ii. Reynolds has painted him, a face Filled with a fine, old-fashioned grace, Fresh-coloured, frank, with ne'er a trace Of trouble shaded ; The eyes are blue, the hair is drest In plainest way, one hand is prest Deep in a flapped canary vest, With buds brocaded. in. He wears a brown old Brunswick coat, With silver buttons, round his throat, A soft cravat ; in all you note An elder fashion, A strangeness, which, to us who shine In shapely hats, whose coats combine All harmonies of hue and line, Inspire compassion. 12 A Gentleman of the Old School. IV. He lived so long ago, you see \ Men were untravelled then, but we, Like Ariel, post o'er land and sea With careless parting ; He found it quite enough for him To smoke his pipe in ' garden trim/ And watch, about the fish tank's brim, The swallows darting. v. He liked the well-wheel's creaking tongue, He liked the thrush that stopped and sung, He liked the drone of flies among His netted peaches ; He liked to watch the sunlight fall Athwart his ivied orchard wall ; Or pause to catch the cuckoo's call Beyond the beeches. A Gentleman of the Old School. 13 VI. His were the times of Paint and Patch, And yet no Ranelagh could match The sober doves that round his thatch Spread tails and sidled ; He liked their ruffling, puffed content, For him their drowsy wheelings meant More than a Mall of Beaux that bent, Or Belles that bridled. vii. Not that, in truth, when life began He shunned the flutter of the fan ; He too had maybe i pinked his man ' In Beauty's quarrel ; But now his ' fervent youth ' had flown Where lost things go ; and he was grown As staid and slow-paced as his own Old hunter, Sorrel. 14 A Gentleman of the Old School. VIII. Yet still he loved the chase, and held That no composer's score excelled The merry horn, when Sweetlip swelled Its jovial riot ; But most his measured' words of praise Caressed the angler's easy ways, His idly meditative days, His rustic diet. IX. Not that his ' meditating ' rose Beyond a sunny summer doze ; He never troubled his repose With fruitless prying ; But held, as law for high and low, What God conceals no man can know, And smiled away inquiry so, Without replying. A Gentleman of the Old School. 1 5 x. We read alas, how much we read ! The jumbled strifes of creed and creed, With endless controversies feed Our groaning tables ; His books and they sufficed him were Cotton's ' Montaigne/ ' The Grave ' of Blair, A ' Walton ' much the worse for wear, And ' ^Esop's Fables.' XL One more,* The Bible/ Not that he Had searched its page as deep as we ; No sophistries could make him see Its slender credit ; It may be that he could not count The sires and sons to Jesse's fount, He liked the ' Sermon on the Mount,' And more, he read it. 16 A Gentleman of the Old School. XII. Once he had loved, but failed to wed, A red-cheeked lass who long was dead ; His ways were far too slow, he said, To quite forget her ; And still when time had turned him gray, The earliest hawthorn buds in May Would find his lingering feet astray, Where first he met her. XIII. * /;/ C&lo Quies ' heads the stone On Leisure's grave, now little known, A tangle of wild-rose has grown So thick across it ; The c Benefactions ' still declare He left the clerk an elbow-chair, And ' 1 2 Pence Yearly to Prepare A Christmas Posset.' A Gentleman of the Old School. 17 XIV. Lie softly, Leisure ! Doubtless you, With too serene a conscience drew Your easy breath, and slumbered through The gravest issue ; But we, to whom our age allows Scarce space to wipe our weary brows, Look down upon your narrow house, Old friend, and miss you ! A GENTLEWOMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL. SHE lived in Georgian era too. Most women then, if bards be true, Succumbed to Routs and Cards, or grew Devout and acid. But hers was neither fate. She came Of good west-country folk, whose fame Has faded now. For us her name Is ' Madam Placid.' * A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 19 ii. Patience or Prudence, what you will, Some prefix faintly fragrant still As those old musky scents that fill Our grandams' pillows ; And for her youthful portrait take Some long-waist child of Hudson's make, Stiffly at ease beside a lake With swans and willows. in. r I keep her later semblance placed Beside my desk, 'tis lawned and laced, In shadowy sanguine stipple traced By Bartolozzi ; A placid face, in which surprise Is seldom seen, but yet there lies Some vestige of the laughing eyes Of arch Piozzi. 2O A Gentlewoman of the Old School. IV. For her e'en Time grew debonair. He, finding cheeks unclaimed of care, With late-delayed faint roses there, And lingering dimples, Had spared to touch the fair old face, And only kissed with Vauxhall grace The soft white hand that stroked her lace, Or smoothed her wimples. v. So left her beautiful. Her age Was comely as her youth was sage, And yet she once had been the rage ; It hath been hinted, Indeed, affirmed by one or two, Some spark at Bath (as sparks will do) Inscribed a song to ' Lovely Prue/ Which Urban printed. A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 2 1 VI. I know she thought ; I know she felt ; Perchance could sum, I doubt she spelt, She knew as little of the Celt As of the Saxon ; I know she played and sang, for yet We keep the tumble-down spinet To which she quavered ballads set By Arne or Jackson. VII. Her tastes were not refined as ours, She liked plain food and homely flowers, Refused to paint, kept early hours, Went clad demurely ; Her art was sampler-work design, Fireworks for her were ' vastly fine/ Her luxury was elder- wine, She loved that ' purely/ 22 A Gentlewoman of the Old School. VIII. She was renowned, traditions say, For June conserves^ for curds and whey, For finest tea (she called it ' tay '), And ratafia ; She knew, for sprains, what bands to choose, Could tell the sovereign wash to use For freckles, and was learned in brews As erst Medea. IX. Yet studied little. She would read, On Sundays, * Pearson on the Creed/ Though, as I think, she could not heed His text profoundly ; Seeing she chose for her retreat The warm west-looking window-seat, Where, if you chanced to raise your feet, You slumbered soundly. A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 23 x. This, 'twixt ourselves. The dear old dame, In truth, was not so much to blame ; The excellent divine I name Is scarcely stirring ; Her plain-song piety preferred Pure life to precept. If she erred, She knew her faults. Her softest word Was for the erring. XI. If she had loved, or if she kept Some ancient memory green, or wept Over the shoulder-knot that slept Within her cuff-box, I know not. Only this I know, At sixty-five she 'd still her beau, A lean French exile, lame and slow, With monstrous snuff-box. 24 A Gentlewoman of the Old School. XII. Younger than she, well-born and bred. She 'd found him in St. Giles', half-dead Of teaching French for nightly bed And daily dinners ; Starving, in fact, 'twixt want, and pride ; And so, henceforth, you always spied His rusty ' pigeon-wings ' beside Her Mechlin pinners. XIII. He worshipped her, you may suppose. She gained him pupils, gave him clothes, Delighted in his dry bon-mots And cackling laughter ; And when, at last, the long duet Of conversation and picquet Ceased with her death, of sheer regret He died soon after. A Gentlewoman of the Old School. 25 \ xiv. Dear Madam Placid ! Others knew Your worth as well as he, and threw Their flowers upon your coffin too, I take for granted. Their loves are lost j but still we see Your kind and gracious memory Bloom yearly with the almond tree The Frenchman planted. UNE MARQUISE. A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE. ' Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d? amour? MOLIERE. I. As you sit there at your ease, O Marquise ! And the men flock round your knees Thick as bees, Mute at every word you utter, Servants to your least frill flutter, ' Belle Marquise ! ' Une Marquise. 27 As you sit there growing prouder, And your ringed hands glance and go, And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder, And your l beaux yeux ' flash and glow ; Ah, you used them on the Painter, As you know, For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, Bowing low, Thanked Madame and Heaven for mercy That each sitter was not Circe, Or at least he told you so ; Growing proud, I say, and prouder To the crowd that come and go, Dainty Deity of Powder, Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, As you sit where lustres strike you, Sure to please, Do we love you most or like you, 1 Belle Marquise / ' 28 Une Marquise. ii. You are fair ; O yes, we know it Well, Marquise ; For he swore it, your last poet, On his knees ; And he called all heaven to witness Of his ballad and its fitness, ' Belle Marquise ! ' You were everything in 'ere (With exception of severe), You were cruelle and rebelle, With the rest of rhymes as well \ You were * RdneJ and ' Mere tf Amour ; ' You were ' Venus a Cy there ; ' ' Sappho mise en Pompadour] And ' Minerve en Parabere ; ' You had every grace of heaven In your most angelic face, Une Marquise. 29 With the nameless finer leaven Lent of blood and courtly race ; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty ; And La Vallikre's yeux veloutes Followed these ; And you liked it, when he said it (On his knees), And you kept it, and you read it, ' Belle Marquise /' in. Yet with us your toilet graces Fail to please, And the last of your last faces, And your mise; For we hold you just as real, * Belle Marquise ! ' 30 Une Marquise. As your Bergers and Bergeres, lies d* Amour, and B atelier es ; As your/tfra, and your Versailles, Gardens, grottoes, and rocailles ; As your Naiads and your trees ; Just as near the old ideal Calm and ease, As the Venus there, by Coustou, That a fan would make quite flighty, Is to her the gods were used to, Is to grand Greek Aphrodite, Sprung from seas. You are just a porcelain trifle, ' Belle Marquise!' Just a thing of puffs and patches, Made for madrigals and catches, Not for heart-wounds, but for scratches, O Marquise ! Une Marquise. 3 1 Just a pinky porcelain trifle ' Belle Marquise ! ' Wrought in rarest rose-Dubarry, Quick at verbal point and parry, Clever, doubtless ; but to marry, No, Marquise ! IV. For your Cupid, you have clipped him, Rouged and patched him, nipped and snipped him, And with chapeau-bras equipped him, ' Belle Marquise ! ' Just to arm you through your wife-time, And the languors of your life- time, 6 Belle Marquise / ' Say, to trim your toilet tapers, Or, to twist your hair in papers, Or, to wean you from the vapours; As for these, 3 2 Une Marquise. You are worth the love they give you, Till a fairer face outlive you, Or a younger grace shall please ; Till the coming of the crows' feet, And the backward turn of beaux' feet, i Belle Marquise /' Till your frothed-out life's commotion Settles down to Ennui's ocean, Or a dainty sham devotion, 'Belle Marquise /' No : we neither like nor love you, ' Belle Marquise / ' Lesser lights we place above you, Milder merits better please. We have passed from Philosophe-fom Into plainer modern days, Une Marqirise. 33 Grown contented in our oafdom, Giving grace not all the praise ; And, en partant, Arsinoe, Without malice whatsoever, We shall counsel to our Chloe To be rather good than clever ; For we find it hard to smother Just one little thought, Marquise ! Wittier perhaps than any other, You were neither Wife nor Mother, * Belle Marquise ! ' THE STORY OF ROSINA. AN INCIDENT IN THE LIFE OF FRANOIS BOUCHER. 1 On ne badine pas avec F amour S THE scene, a wood. A shepherd tip-toe creeping,. Carries a basket, whence a billet peeps, To lay beside a silk-clad Oread sleeping Under an urn ; yet not so sound she sleeps But that she plainly sees his graceful act ; 1 He thinks she thinks he thinks she sleeps/ in fact. The Story of Rosina. 35 One hardly needs the ' Peint par Francois Boucher' All the sham life comes back again, one sees Alcoves, Ruelles, the Lever, and the Coucher, Patches and Ruffles, Roues and Marquises ; The little great, the infinite small thing That ruled the hour when Louis Quinze was king. For these were yet the days of halcyon weather, A Martin's summer when the nation swam, Aimless and easy as a wayward feather, Down the full tide of jest and epigram ; A careless time, when France's bluest blood Beat to the tune of c After us the flood.' Plain Roland still was placidly ' inspecting,' Not now Camille had stirred the Cafe Foy ; Marat was young, and Guillotin dissecting, Corday unborn, and Lamballe in Savoie ; No faubourg yet had heard the Tocsin ring : This was the summer when Grasshoppers sing. 36 The Story of Rosina. And far afield were sun-baked savage creatures, Female and male, that tilled the earth, and wrung Want from the soil ; lean things with livid features, Shape of bent man, and voice that never sung : These were the Ants, for yet to Jacques Bonhomme Tumbrils were not, nor any sound of drum. But Boucher was a Grasshopper, and painted, Rose-water Raphael, en couleur de rose, The crowned Caprice, whose sceptre, nowise sainted, Swayed the light realm of ballets and bon-mots ; Ruled the dim boudoir's ' demi-jour, or drove Pink-ribboned flocks through some pink-flowered grove. A laughing Dame, who sailed a laughing cargo Of flippant loves along the Fleuve du Tendre; Whose greatest grace vrasjupes d la Camargo, Whose gentlest merit gentiment se rendre ; Queen of the rouge-cheeked Hours, whose footsteps fell To Rameau's notes, in dances by Gardel The Story of Rosina. 3 7 Her Boucher served, till Nature's self betraying, As Wordsworth sings, the heart that loved her not, Made of his work a land of languid Maying, Filled with false gods and muses misbegot ; A Versailles Eden of cosmetic youth, Wherein most things went naked, save the Truth. Once, only once, perhaps the last night's revels Palled in the after-taste, our Boucher sighed For that first beauty, falsely named the Devil's, Young-lipped, unlessoned, joyous, and clear-eyed \ Flung down his palette like a weary man, And sauntered slowly through the Rue Sainte-Anne. Wherefore, we know not ; but, at times, far nearer Things common come, and lineaments half-seen Grow in a moment magically clearer ; Perhaps, as he walked, the grass he called 'too green' Rose and rebuked him, or the earth ' ill-lighted ' Silently smote him with the charms he slighted. 38 The Story of Rosina. But, as he walked, he tired of god and goddess, Nymphs that deny, and shepherds that appeal ; Stale seemed the trick of kerchief and of bodice, Folds that confess, and flutters that reveal ; Then as he grew more sad and disenchanted, Forthwith he spied the very thing he wanted. So, in the Louvre, the passer-by might spy some Arch-looking head, with half-evasive air, Start from behind the fruitage of Van Huysum, Grape-bunch and melon, nectarine and pear : Here 'twas no Venus of Batavian city, But a French girl, young, piquante, bright, and pretty. Graceful she was, as some slim marsh-flower shaken Among the sallows, in the breezy Spring ; Blithe as the first blithe song of birds that waken, Fresh as a fresh young pear-tree blossoming ; Black was her hair as any blackbird's feather ; Just for her mouth, two rose-buds grew together. The Story of Rosina. 39 Sloes were her eyes ; but her soft cheeks were peaches, Hued like an Autumn pippin, where the red Seems to have burned right through the skin, and reaches E'en to the core ; and if you spoke, it spread Up till the blush had vanquished all the brown, And, like two birds, the sudden lids dropped down. As Boucher smiled, the bright black eyes ceased dancing, As Boucher spoke, the dainty red eclipse Filled all the face from cheek to brow, enhancing Half a shy smile that dawned around the lips. Then a shrill mother rose upon the view ; 4 Cerises, M'sieu ? Rosine, depechez-vous ! ' Deep in the fruit her hands Rosina buries, Soon in the scale the ruby bunches lay. The painter, watching the suspended cherries, Never had seen such little fingers play ; As for the arm, no Hebe's could be rounder ; Low in his heart a whisper said ' I Ve found her.' 4O The Story of Rosina. ' Woo first the mother, if you 'd win the daughter ! ' Boucher was charmed, and turned to Madame Mere, Almost with tears of suppliance besought her Leave to immortalize a face so fair ; Praised and cajoled so craftily that straightway Void Rosina, standing at his gateway. Shy at the first, in time Rosina's laughter Rang through the studio as the girlish face Peeped from some painter's travesty, or after Showed like an Omphale in lion's case ; Gay as a thrush, that from the morning dew Pipes to the light its clear ' Reveillez-vous? Just a mere child with sudden ebullitions, Flashes of fun, and little bursts of song, Petulant pains, and fleeting pale contritions, Mute little moods of misery and wrong ; Only a child, of Nature's rarest making, Wistful and sweet, and with a heart for breaking ! The Story of Rosina. 4 1 Day after day the little loving creature Came and returned ; and still the Painter felt, Day after day, the old theatric Nature Fade from his sight, and like a shadow melt, Pa?iiers and Powder, Pastoral and Scene, Killed by the simple beauty of Rosine. As for the girl, she turned to her new being, Came, as a bird that hears its fellow call ; Blessed, as the blind that blesses God for seeing ; Grew as a flower on which the sun-rays fall ; Loved if you will ; she never named it so : Love comes unseen, we only see it go. There is a figure among Boucher's sketches, Slim, a child-face, the eyes as black as beads, Head set askance, and hand that shyly stretches Flowers to the passer, with a look that pleads. This was no other than Rosina surely ; None Boucher knew could else have looked so purely. 42 The Story of Rosina. But forth her Story, for I will not tarry, Whether he loved the little l nut-brown maid;' If, of a truth, he counted this to carry Straight to the end, or just the whim obeyed, Nothing we know, but only that before More had been done, a finger tapped the door. Opened Rosina to the unknown comer. 'Twas a young girl ' une pauvre fille] she said, 6 They had been growing poorer all the summer ; Father was lame, and mother lately dead ; Bread was so dear, and, oh ! but want was bitter, Would Monsieur pay to have her for a sitter ? Men called her pretty/ Boucher looked a minute : Yes, she was pretty; and her face beside Shamed her poor clothing by a something in it, Grace, and a presence hard to be denied ; This was no common offer it was certain ; ' Allez, Rosina ! sit behind the curtain.' The Story of Rosina. 43 Meantime the Painter, with a mixed emotion, Drew and re-drew his ill-disguised Marquise, Passed in due time from praises to devotion ; Last when his sitter left him on his knees, Rose in a maze of passion and surprise, Rose, and beheld Rosina's saddened eyes. i Thrice-happy France, whose facile sons inherit Still in the old traditionary way, Power to enjoy with yet a rarer merit, Power to forget. Our Boucher rose, I say, With hand still prest to heart, with pulses throbbing, And blankly stared at poor Rosina sobbing. 6 This was no model, M'sieu, but a lady.' Boucher was silent, for he knew it true. * Est-ce que vous Paimez ? ' Never answer made he ! Ah, for the old love fighting with the new ! 1 Est-ce que vous faimez ? ' sobbed Rosina' s sorrow. ' on!' murmured Boucher; 'she will come to- morrow/ 44 The Story of Rosina. How like a Hunter thou, O Time, dost harry Us, thine oppressed, and pleasured with the chase Sparest to strike thy sorely-running quarry, Following not less with unrelenting face. Time, if Love hunt, and Sorrow hunt, with thee, Woe to the Fawn ! There is no way to flee. Woe to Rosina ! By To-morrow stricken, Swift from her life the sun of gold declined. Nothing remained but those gray shades that thicken, Cloud and the cold, the loneliness the wind. Only a little by the door she lingers, Waits, with wrung lip and interwoven fingers. No, not a sign. Already with the Painter Grace and the nymphs began recovered reign ; Truth was no more, and Nature, waxing fainter, Paled to the old sick Artifice again. Seeing Rosina going out to die, How should he know what Fame had passed him by 1 The Story of Rosina. 45 Going to die ! For who shall waste in sadness, Shorn of the sun, the very warmth and light, Miss the green welcome of the sweet earth's gladness, Lose the round life that only Love makes bright : There is no succour if these things are taken. None but Death loves the lips by Love forsaken. So, in a little, when those Two had parted, Tired of himself, and weary as before, Boucher remembering, sick and sorry-hearted, Stayed for a moment by Rosina's door. ' Ah, the poor child ! ' the neighbours cry of her, ' Morte, MsieU) morte! On dit,des peines du cmtr? Just for a second, say, the tidings shocked him, Say, in his eye a sudden tear-drop shone, Just for a second a dull feeling mocked him With a vague sense of something priceless gone ; Then, for at best 'twas but the empty type, The husk of man with which the days were ripe, 46 The Story of Rosina. Then, he forgot her. But, for you that slew her, You, her own sister, that with airy ease, Just for a moment's fancy could undo her, Pass on your way. A little while, Marquise, Be the sky silent, be the sea serene ; A pleasant passage a Saint e Guillotine. As for Rosina, for the quiet sleeper, Whether stone hides her, or the happy grass, If the sun quickens, if the dews beweep her, Laid in the Madeleine or Montparnasse, Nothing we know, but that her heart is cold, Poor beating heart ! And so the story 's told. A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC. OLD it is, and worn and battered, As I lift it from the stall ; And the leaves are frayed and tattered, And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced and blackened by a ball. u. Tis the tale of grief and gladness Told by sad St. Pierre of yore, That in front of France's madness Hangs a strange seductive sadness, Grown pathetic evermore. 48 A Revolutionary Relic. in. And a perfume round it hovers, Which the pages half reveal, For a folded corner covers, Interlaced, two names of lovers, A ' Savignac ' and ' Lucile.' IV. As I read I marvel whether, In some pleasant old chateau, Once they read this book together, In the scented summer weather, With the shining Loire below 1 v. Nooked secluded from espial, Did Love slip and snare them so, While the hours danced round the dial To the sound of flute and viol, In that pleasant old chateau ? A Revolutionary Relic. 49 VI. Did it happen that no single Word of mouth could either speak ? * Did the brown and gold hair mingle, Did the shamed skin thrill and tingle To the shock of cheek and cheek ? VII. Did they feel with that first flushing Some new sudden power to feel, Some new inner spring set gushing At the names together rushing Of c Savignac ; and ' Lucile ' 1 VIII. Did he drop on knee before her 1 Son Amour, son Cceur, sa Reine' In his high-flown way, adore her, Urgent, eloquent implore her, Plead his pleasure and his pain 1 50 A Revolutionary Relic. IX. Did she turn with sight swift-dimming, And the quivering lip we know, With the full, slow eyelid brimming, With the languorous pupil swimming, Like the love of Mirabeau ? x. Stretch her hand from cloudy frilling, For his eager lips to press ; In a flash all fate fulfilling Did he catch her, trembling, thrilling Crushing life to one caress 1 XI. Did they sit in that dim sweetness Of attained love's after-calm, Marking not the world its meetness, Marking Time not, nor his fleetness, Only happy, palm to palm 1 A Revolutionary Relic. 5 i XII. Till at last she, sunlight smiting Red on wrist and cheek and hair, Sought the page where love first lighting, Fixed their fate, and, in this writing, Fixed the record of it there. # # # XIII. Did they marry midst the smother, Shame and slaughter of it all ? Did she wander like that other Woful, wistful, wife and mother, Round and round his prison wall ; XIV. Wander wailing, as the plover Waileth, wheeleth, desolate, Heedless of the hawk above her, While as yet the rushes cover, Waning fast, her wounded mate ; 52 A RevohUionary Relic. XV. Wander, till his love's eyes met hers, Fixed and wide in their despair ? Did he burst his prison fetters, Did he write sweet, yearning letters, ' A Lucile,en Angletcrre ' f XVI. Letters where the reader, reading, Halts him with a sudden stop, For he feels a man's heart bleeding, Draining out its pain's exceeding Half a life, at every drop : XVII. Letters where Love's iteration Seems to warble and to rave ; Letters where the pent sensation Leaps to lyric exultation, Like a song-bird from a grave. A Revolutionary Relic. 53 XVIII. Where, through Passion's wild repeating Peeps the Pagan and the Gaul, Politics and love competing, Abelard and Cato greeting, Rousseau ramping over all. XIX, Yet your critic's right you waive it, Whirled along the fever- flood ; And its touch of truth shall save it, And its tender rain shall lave it, For at least you read Amavit, Written there in tears of blood. * * # xx. Did they hunt him to his hiding, Tracking traces in the snow 1 Did they tempt him out, confiding, Shoot him ruthless down, deriding, By the ruined old chateau ] 54 A Revohctionary Relic. XXI. Left to lie, with thin lips resting Frozen to a smile of scorn, Just the bitter thought's suggesting, At this excellent new jesting Of the rabble Devil-born. xxn. Till some ' tiger-monkey/ finding These few words the covers bear, Some swift rush of pity blinding, Sent them in the shot- pierced binding ' A Litcile^ en Anglcterre? * * # XXIII. Fancies only ! Nought the covers,, Nothing more the leaves reveal, Yet I love it for its lovers, For the dream that round it hovers Of 'Savignac' and ' Lucile.' BEFORE SEDAN. * The dead hand clasped a letter. * SPECIAL CORRESPONDENCE. HERE, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies ; Tis but another dead ; All you can say is said. 56 Before Sedan. Carry his body hence, Kings must have slaves ; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves : So this man's eye is dim ; Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched, There, at his side ? Paper his hand had clutched Tight ere he died ; Message or wish, may be ; Smooth the folds out and see. Hardly the worst of us Here could have smiled ! Only the tremulous Words of a child ; Prattle, that has for stops Just a few ruddy drops. Before Sedan. . 5 7 Look. She is sad to miss, Morning and night, His her dead father's kiss ; Tries to be bright, Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. ' Marguerite/ Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain ! If the grief died ; But no ; Death will not have it so. A V I C E. ' On scrait tente de lui dire, Bonjour, Mademoiselle la Bergeronnette! VICTOR HUGO. I. THOUGH the voice of modern schools Has demurred, By the dreamy Asian creed 'Tis averred, That the souls of men, released From their bodies when deceased, Sometimes enter in a beast, Or a bird. A vice. 59 ii. I have watched you long, Avice, Watched you so, I have found your secret out ; And I know That the restless ribboned things, Where your slope of shoulder springs, Are but undeveloped wings That will grow. in. When you enter in a room, It is stirred With the wayward, flashing flight Of a bird ; And you speak and bring with you Leaf and sun-ray, bud and blue, And the wind-breath and the dew At a word. 60 A vice. IV. When you called to me my name, Then again When I heard your single cry In the lane, All the sound was as the ' sweet ' Which the birds to birds repeat In their thank-song to the heat After rain. v. When you sang the Schwalbenlied, 'Twas absurd, But it seemed no human note That I heard ; For your strain had all the trills, . All the little shakes and stills, Of the over-song that rills From a bird. A vice. 6 1 VI. You have just their eager, quick 4 Airs de tetej All their flush and fever-heat When elate ; Every bird-like nod and beck, And a bird's own curve of neck When she gives a little peck To her mate. VII. When you left me, only now, In that furred, Puffed, and feathered Polish dress, I was spurred Just to catch you, O my Sweet, By the bodice trim and neat, Just to feel your heart a-beat, Like a bird. 62 A vice. VIII. Yet, alas ! Love's light you deign But to wear As the dew upon your plumes, And you care Not a whit for rest or hush ; But the leaves, the lyric gush, And the wing-power, and the rush Of the air. IX. So I dare not woo you, Sweet, For a day, Lest I lose you in a flash, As I may ; Did I tell you tender things, You would shake your sudden wings ; You would start from him who sings, And away. A DIALOGUE FROM PLATO. ' Le temps le miciix employe cst cclui qtfon perd. ' CLAUDE TILLTER. I 'D ' read ' three hours. Both notes and text Were fast a mist becoming ; In bounced a vagrant bee, perplexed, And filled the room with humming; Then out. The casement's leafage sways, And, parted light, discloses Miss Di., with hat and book, a maze Of muslin mixed with roses. 64 A Dialogue from Plato. ' You 're reading Greek I 9 4 1 am and you 1 ' ' O, mine 's a mere romancer ! ' 6 So Plato is/ ' Then read him do ; And I '11 read mine in answer.' I read. ' My Plato (Plato, too, That wisdom thus should harden !) Declares " blue eyes look doubly blue Beneath a Dolly Varden." ' She smiled. f My book in turn avers (No author's name is stated) That sometimes those Philosophers Are sadly mis-translated/ ' But hear, the next's in stronger style : The Cynic School asserted That two red lips which part and smile May not be controverted ! ' A Dialogue from Plato. 65 She smiled once more ' My book, I find, Observes some modern doctors * Would make the Cynics out a kind Of album-verse concoctors.' Then I ' Why not ? " Ephesian law, No less than time's tradition, Enjoined fair speech on all who saw DIANA'S apparition/'/ She blushed this time. ^If Plato's page No wiser precept teaches, Then 1 7 d renounce that doubtful sage, And walk to Burnham-beeches/ ' Agreed,' I said. ' For Socrates (I find he too is talking) Thinks Learning can't remain at ease While Beauty goes a-walking.' 66 A Dialogue from Plato. She read no more. I leapt the sill : The sequel 's scarce essential Nay, more than this, I hold it still Profoundly confidential. AN AUTUMN IDYLL. * Sweet Thcmines ! runne softly, till I end my songS SPENSER. LAWRENCE. FRANK. JACK. LAWRENCE. HERE, where the beech-nuts drop among the grasses, Push the boat in, and throw the rope ashore. Jack, hand me out the claret and the glasses ; Here let us sit. We landed here before. FRANK. Jack's undecided. Say, formvse fuer, Bent in a dream above the ' water wan,' Shall we row higher, for the reeds are fewer, There by the pollards, where you see the swan ? 68 An Autumn IdylL JACK. Hist ! That's a pike. Look nose against the river, Gaunt as a wolf, the sly old privateer ! Enter a gudgeon. Snap, a gulp, a shiver ; Exit the gudgeon. Let us anchor here. FRANK (in the grass). Jove, what a day ! Black Care upon the crupper Nods at his post, and slumbers in the sun ; Half of Theocritus, with a touch of Tupper, Churns in my head. The frenzy has begun ! LAWRENCE. Sing to us then. Damoatas in a choker, Much out of tune, will edify the rooks. FRANK. Sing you again. So musical a croaker Surely will draw the fish upon the hooks. An Autumn Idyll. 69 JACK. Sing while you may. The beard of manhood still is Faint on your cheeks, but I, alas ! am old. Doubtless you yet believe in Amaryllis ; Sing me of Her, whose name may not be told. FRANK. Listen, O Thames ! His budding beard is riper, Say by a week. Well, Lawrence, shall we sing ? LAWRENCE. Yes, if you will. But ere I play the piper, Let him declare the prize he has to bring. JACK. Hear then, my Shepherds. Lo, to him accounted First in the song, a Pipe I will impart ; This, my Beloved, marvellously mounted, Amber and foam, a miracle of art. 70 An Autumn Idyll. LAWRENCE. Lordly the gift. O Muse of many numbers Grant me a soft alliterative song ! FRANK. Me too, O.Muse! And when the Umpire slumbers, Sting him with gnats a summer evening long. LAWRENCE. Not in a cot, begarlanded of spiders, Not where the brook traditionally purls, No, in the Row, supreme among the riders, Seek I the gem, the paragon of girls. FRANK. Not in the waste of column and of coping, Not in the sham and stucco of a square, No, on a June-lawn, to the water sloping, Stands she I honour, beautifully fair. An Autumn Idyll. 71 LAWRENCE. Dark-haired is mine, with splendid tresses plaited Back from the brows, imperially curled ; Calm as a grand, far-looking Caryatid, Holding the roof that covers in a world. FRANK. Dark-haired is mine, with breezy ripples swinging Loose as a vine-branch blowing in the morn ; Eyes like the morning, mouth for ever singing, Blithe as a bird, new risen from the corn. LAWRENCE. Best is the song with music interwoven : Mine 's a musician, musical at heart, Throbs to the gathered grieving of Beethoven, Sways to the light coquetting of Mozart. 72 An Autumn Idyll. . FRANK. Best ? You should hear mine trilling out a ballad, Queen at a pic-nic, leader of the glees, Not too divine to toss you up a salad, Great in Sir Roger danced among the trees. . LAWRENCE. Ah, when the thick night flares with dropping torches, Ah, when the crush-room empties of the swarm, Pleasant the hand that, in the gusty porches, Light as a snow-flake, settles on your arm. FRANK. Better the twilight and the cheery chatting, Better the dim, forgotten garden-seat, Where one may lie, and watch the fingers tatting, Lounging with Bran or Bevis at her feet. An Autumn Idyll. 73 LAWRENCE. All worship mine. Her purity doth hedge her Round with so delicate divinity, that men, Stained to the soul with money-bag and ledger, Bend to the goddess, manifest again. FRANK. None worship mine. But some, I fancy, love her, Cynics to boot. I know the children run, Seeing her come, for naught that I discover, Save that she brings the summer and the sun. LAWRENCE. Mine is a Lady, beautiful and queenly, Crowned with a sweet, continual control, Grandly forbearing, lifting life serenely E'en to her own nobility of soul. 74 An Autumn Idyll. FRANK. Mine is a Woman, kindly beyond measure, Fearless in praising, faltering in blame ; Simply devoted to other people's pleasure, Jack's sister Florence, now you know her name. LAWRENCE. ' Jack's sister Florence ! ' Never, Francis, never. Jack, do you hear? Why, it was she I meant. She like the country ! Ah, she 's far too clever FRANK. There you are wrong. I know her down in Kent. LAWRENCE. You'll get a sunstroke, standing with your head bare. Sorry to differ. Jack, the word 's with you. An Autumn Idyll. 75 FRANK. How is it, Umpire ? Though the motto 's threadbare, 1 Calum, non aninmm' is, I take it, true. JACK. ' Souventfemme varie^ as a rule, is truer ; Flattered, I 'm sure, but both of you romance. Happy to further suit of either wooer, Merely observing you haven't got a chance. LAWRENCE. Yes. But the Pipe FRANK. The Pipe is what we care for, JACK. Well, in this case, I scarcely need explain, Judgment of mine were indiscreet, and therefore, Peace to you both. The Pipe I shall retain. A GARDEN IDYLL. A LADY. A POET. THE LADY. i. SIR POET, ere you crossed the lawn (If it was wrong to watch you, pardon), Behind this weeping birch withdrawn, I watched you saunter round the garden. I saw you bend beside the phlox, Pluck, as you passed, a sprig of myrtle, Review my well-ranged hollyhocks, Smile at the fountain's slender spurtle ; A Garden Idyll. 7 7 ii. You paused beneath the cherry-tree, Where my marauder thrush was singing, Peered at the bee-hives curiously, And narrowly escaped a stinging ; And then you see I watched you passed Down the .espalier walk that reaches Out to the western wall, and last Dropped on the seat before the peaches. in. What was your thought? You 'waited long. Sublime or graceful, grave, satiric? A Morris Greek-and-Gothic song ? A tender Tennysonian lyric ? Tell me. That garden-seat shall be, So long as speech renown disperses, Illustrious as the spot where he The gifted Blank composed his verses. 78 A Garden Idyll. THE POET. IV. Madam, whose uncensorious eye Grows gracious over certain pages, Wherein the Jester's maxims lie, It may be, thicker than the Sage's I hear but to obey, and could Mere wish of mine the pleasure do you, Some verse as whimsical as Hood, As gay as Praed, should answer to you. v. But, though the common voice proclaims Our only serious vocation Confined to giving nothings names, And dreams a ' local habitation ; ' Believe me, there are tuneless days, When neither marble, brass, nor vellum, Would profit much by any lays That haunt the poet's cerebellum. A Garden Idyll. 79 VI. More empty things, I fear, than rhymes, More idle things than songs, absorb it ; The ' finely-frenzied ' eye, at times, Reposes mildly in its orbit ; And, painful truth, at times, to him, Whose jog-trot thought is nowise restive, c A primrose by a river's brim ' Is absolutely unsuggestive. VII. The fickle Muse ! As ladies will, She sometimes wearies of her wooer ; A goddess, yet a woman still, She flies the more that we pursue her ; In short, with worst as well as best, Five months in six, your hapless poet' Is just as prosy as the rest, But cannot comfortably show it. 8o A Garden Idyll. VIII. You thought, no doubt, the garden-scent Brings back some brief-winged bright sensation Of love that came and love that went, Some fragrance of a lost flirtation, Born when the cuckoo changes song, Dead ere the apple's red is on it, That should have been an epic long, Yet scarcely served to fill a sonnet. IX. Or else you thought, the murmuring noon, He turns it to a lyric sweeter, With birds that gossip in the tune, And windy bough-swing in the metre ; Or else the zigzag fruit-tree arms Recall some dream of harp-prest bosoms, Round singing mouths, and chanted charms, And mediaeval orchard blossoms, A Garden Idyll. 8 1 x. Quite a la mode. Alas for prose, My vagrant fancies only rambled Back to the red-walled Rectory close, Where first my graceless boyhood gamboled^ Climbed on the dial, teased the fish, And chased the kitten round the beeches, Till widening instincts made me wish For certain slowly-ripening peaches. XI. Three peaches. Not the Graces three Had more equality of beauty : I would not look, yet went to see ; I wrestled with Desire and Duty ; I felt the pangs of those who feel The Laws of Property beset them ; The conflict made my reason reel, And, half-abstractedly, I ate them ; ; 82 A Garden Idyll. XII. Or Two of them. Forthwith Despair More keen that one of these was rotten Moved me to seek some forest lair Where I might hide and dwell forgotten, Attired in skins, by berries stained, Absolved from brushes and ablution ; But, ere my sylvan haunt was gained, Fate gave me up to execution. XIII. I saw it all but now. The grin That gnarled old Gardener Sandy's features ; - My father, scholar-like and thin, Unroused, the tenderest of creatures ; I saw ah me I saw again My dear and deprecating mother ; And then, remembering the cane, Regretted that I 'd left the other. TU QUOQUE. AN IDYLL IN THE CONSERVATORY. ' romprons-nous, Ou lie romprons- nous pas ? ' LE DEPIT AMOUREUX. NELLIE. IF I were you, when ladies at the play, sir, Beckon and nod, a melodrama through, I would not turn abstractedly away, sir, If I were you ! FRANK. If I were you, when persons I affected, Wait for three hours to take me down to Kew, I would, at least, pretend I recollected, If I were you ! 84 . Tu Quoqite. NELLIE. If I were you, when ladies are so lavish, Sir, as to keep me every waltz but two, I would not dance with odious Miss M'Tavish, If I were you ! FRANK. If I were you, who vow you cannot suffer Whiff of the best, the mildest ' honey-dew,' I would not dance with smoke-consuming Puffer, If I were you ! NELLIE. If I were you, I would not, sir, be bitter, Even to write the ' Cynical Review ; ' FRANK. No, I should doubtless find flirtation fitter, If I were you ! Tu Quoque. 85 NELLIE. Really ! You would 1 Why, Frank, you 're, quite delightful, Hot as Othello, and as black of hue ; Borrow my fan. I would not look so frightful, If I were you ! FRANK, ' It is the cause.' I mean your chaperon is Bringing some well-curled juvenile. Adieu ! / shall retire, I 'd spare that poor Adonis, If I were you ! NELLIE. Go, if you will. At once ! And by express, sir ! Where shall it be 1 To China or Peru ? Go. I should leave inquirers my address, sir, If I were you ! 86 Tit FRANK. No, I remain. To stay and fight a duel Seems, on the whole, the proper thing to do Ah, you are strong, I would not then be cruel, If I were you ! NELLIE. One does not like one's feelings to be doubted, FRANK. f One does not like one's friends to misconstrue, NELLIE. If I confess that I a wee-bit pouted ? FRANK. I should admit that I was//^^, too. NELLIE. Ask me to dance. I 'd say no more about it, If I were you ! [Waltz Exeunt^ r. 6d. CONTENTS. SEEKING HIS FORTUNE. I WHAT'S IN A NAME. OLUF AND STEPHANOFF. ( J CONTRAST. ONESTA. A series of instructive and interesting stories for children of both sexes, each one enforcing, indirectly, a good moral lesson. THREE NEW STORIES. By MARTHA FARQUHARSON. Each story is complete in itself, is elegantly bound, and illustrated. Price 3-5 1 . 6J. I. T^LSIE DINSMORE. Crown Svo, 3^. 6d. II. LSIE'S GIRLHOOD. Crown Svo, 3^. 6d. III. LSIE'S HOLIDAYS AT ROSEL'ANDS. Crown 8vo, 3J. 6d. The Stories by this author have a very high reputation in America, and of all her books these are the most popular and widely circulated. These are the only English editions sanctioned by the author, who has a direct interest in this English Edition. E E AFRICAN CRUISER. A Midshipman's Adventures on the West Coast. A Book for Boys. By S. WHITCHURCH SADLER, R.N. Illustrated. 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By ARCHIBALD ^3 FORIJES, of the Daily N&vs, Author of "My Experience of the War between France and Germany." Crown 8vo. *js. 6d. "All who open it will be inclined to read through for th^ varied enter- tainment which it affords." Daily Aews. " There is a good deal of instruction to outsiders touching military life in this volume." Evening Standard. "There is not a paper in the book which is not thoroughly readable and worth reading." Scotsman. TUDIES AND ROMANCES. By H. SCHUTZ WILSON, i vol. CrowmSvo. Price Js. 6d. Shakespeare in Blackfriars. The Loves of Goethe. Romance of the Thames. An Exalted Horn. Two Sprigs of Edelweiss.- Between Moor and Main. An Episode of the Terror. Harry Ormond's Christ- mas Dinner. Agnes Bernauerin. "Yes" or "No"? A Model! Romance. The Story of Little Jenny. Dining. The Record of a Vanished Life. "Vivacious and interesting ; and the volume will certainly make one of the pleasantest that can be taken to die seaside or to any country place during holiday time." Scotsman. " We can cordially recommend this book to those of our readers who are about to rusticate or travel." Edin. Daily Review. " Open the book, however, at what page the reader may, he will find something to amuse and instruct, and he must be very hard to Dlease if he finds nothing to suit him, either grave or gay, stirring or romantic, in the capital stories collected in this well-got-up volume." John Bull. " It contains several other capital descriptive sketches, and one or two interesting stories." Manchester Examiner. CABINET PORTRAITS. Biographical Sketches of Living Statesmen. By T. WEMYSS REID. i vol. crown 8vo. *js. 6d. " We have never met with a work which we can more unreservedly praise. The sketches are absolutely impartial." Athenceiun. tf We can heartily commend this work." Standard. "The 'Sketches of Statesmen* are drawn with a master hand." Yorkshire Post. 65, Cornh ill, & 12, Paternoster Row, London. T Books for Presents, &c. n Third Edition. HE SECRET OF LONG LIFE. Dedicated by Special Permission to Lord St. Leonards. Large crown. 8vo. 5^. "A charming little volume, written with singular felicity of style and illustration. " Times. "A very pleasant little book, which is always, whether it deal in para- dox or earnest, cheerful, genial, scholarly." Spectator. " The bold and striking character of the whole conception is entitled to the warmest admiration." Pall Mall Gazette. " We should recommend our readers to get this book .... because by the jovial miscellaneous and pages." Brit is Ji Quarterly Re o recommen our raer o they will be amused by the jovial miscellaneous and cultured gossip with, which he strews his pages." Brit is Ji Quarterly Review. iTREAMS FROM HIDDEN SOURCES. By B, MONTGOMERIE RANKING. Crown 8vO. 6s. " In point of style it is well executed, and the prefatory notices are very good. " Spectator. "The effect of reading the seven tales he presents to us is to make us wish for some seven more of the same kind." Pall Mall Gazette. "The tales are given throughout in the quaint version of the earliest English translators, and in the introduction to each will be found much curious information as to their origin, and the fate which they have met at the hands of later transcribers or imitators, and much tasteful appre- ciation of the varied sources from whence they are extracted ..... We doubt not that Mr. Ranking's enthusiasm will communicate itself to many of his readers, and induce them in like manner to follow back these. streamlets to their parent river." Graphic. F FOUR AMUSING TRAVEL-BOOKS. I. AYOUM ; OR, ARTISTS IN EGYPT. A Tour with M. Ge'rome and others. By J. LENOIR. Crown j^vo, cloth. Illustrated. *js. 6d. "The sketches, both by pen and pencil, are extremely interesting. Unlike books of travel of the ordinary knid, this volume is full of agree- able episodes told in a bright and sparkling style." " A pleasantly written and very readable book." Examiner. " The book is very amusing. . . . Whoever may take it up will find he has with him a bright and pleasant companion." -Spectator. 65, Com hill) e 12, Paternoster Row, London. Books for Presents, A II. WINTER IN MOROCCO. By AMELIA PERRIER. Large crown Svo. Illustrated. Price los. 6d. "Well worth reading, and contains several excellent illustrations." H-our. " Miss Perrier is a very amusing writer. She has a good deal of humour, sees the oddity and quaintness (as they appear to us) of Oriental life with a quick observant eye, and evidently turned her opportunities of sarcastic examination to account." Daily Nevus. " Her synonyms, her graphic touches, her toiirs de phrase on the subject of dirt, are admirable, and she happily succeeds in conveying such an impression of the horrors of the place, that none of the many artists who are good enough to paint those delightful slumberous interiors for us, all colour and grapes, moon-eyed beauties, glistening floors, diapered walls, and long-necked sherbet jars, will have a chance of being believed for the future." Spectator. III. TENT LIFE WITH ENGLISH GIPSIES IN NORWAY. By HUBERT SMITH. In Svo, cloth. Five full-page Engravings, and 31 smaller Illustrations, with Map of the Country showing Routes. New Edition, revised and corrected. Price 2is. "The work is copiously illustrated, not merely in name, but in fact; and there will be few who will not peruse it with pleasure." Standard. " If any of our readers think of scraping an acquaintance with Norway, let them read this book. The engravings are for the most part excellent. The gipsies, always an interesting study, become doubly interesting, when we are, as in these pages, introduced to them in their daily walk and con- versation." Examiner. "Written in a very lively style, and has throughout a smack of dry humour and satiric reflection which shows the writer to be a keen observer of men and things. We hope that many will read it and find in it the same amusement as ourselves." Times. IV. HE PEARL OF THE ANTILLES ; THE ARTIST IN CUBA. By WALTER GOODMAN. Crown Svo. 7.5-. 6d. "A good-sized volume, delightfully vivid and picturesque. . . . Several chapters devoted to the characteristics of the people are exceedingly in- teresting and remarkable. . . . The whole book deserves the heartiest commendation Sparkling and amusing from beginning to end. Reading it is like rambling about with a companion who is content to loiter, observing everything, commenting upon everything, turning everything into a picture, with a cheerful flow of spirits, full of fun, but far above frivolity. " Spectator. T 65, Cornhill, e 12, Paternoster Row, London. Books for Presents, &c. 13 POETRY. METRICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GREEK AND LATIN POETS, AND OTHER POEMS. By R. B. BQSWELL, M.A. (Oxon). Crown 8vo. Price 5>r. N VIOL AND FLUTE. A Volume of Lyrical Poems. By EDMUND W. GOSSE. With a Frontispiece by O W. B. SCOTT. Small crown 8vo. Price 5^. 1VTARCISSUS AND OTHER POEMS. By E. J^ \| CARPENTER. Small crown 8vo. Price $s. A TALE OF THE SEA, SONNETS, AND OTHER POEMS. By JAMES HOWELL. Crown Svo, cloth, 5.$-. I MITATIONS FROM THE GERMAN OF SPITTA AND TERSTEGEN. By LADY DURAND. Crown Svo. 4^. " An 'acceptable addition to the religious poetry of the day." Courant. 65, Corn/lit I, c 12, Paternoster Row, London. 14 Books for Presents, & E POETRY ( Continued). ASTERN LEGENDS AND STORIES IN ENGLISH VERSE. By LIEUTENANT NORTON POWLETT, Royal Artillery. Crown 8vo. 5^. ''Have we at length found a successor to Thomas Ingoldsby? We are almost inclined to hope so after reading ' Eastern Legends.' There is a rollicking sense of fun about the stories, joined to marvellous power of rhyming, and plenty of swing, which irresistibly reminds us of our old favourite." Graphic. EDITH ; OR, LOVE AND LIFE IN CHESHIRE. By T. ASHE, Author of the " Sorrows of Hypsipyle," etc. Sewed. Price 6d. <: A really fine poem, full of tender, subtle touches of feeling." Manchester Ne^vs. " Pregnant from beginning to end with the results of careful observa- tion and imaginative power." Chester Chronicle. THE INN OF STRANGE MEETINGS, AND OTHER POEMS. By MORTIMER COLLINS. Crown 8vo. T "Abounding in quiet humour, in bright fancy, in sweetness and melody of expression, and, at times, in the tenderest touches of pathos." Graphic. "Mr. Collins has an undercurrent of chivalry and romance beneath the trifling vein of good-humoured banter which is the special characteristic of his verse. . . . The 'Inn of Strange Meetings' is a sprightly piece. " A thenceum. HE GALLERY OF PIGEONS, AND OTHER POEMS. By TIIEO. MARZIALS. Crown 8vo. 4?. 6d. "A conceit abounding in prettiness." Examiner. " Contains as clear evidence as a book can contain that its composition was a source of keen and legitimate enjoyment. The rush of fresh, sparkling fancies is too rapid, too sustained, too abundant, not to be spontaneous." A cademy. 65, Cornhilly &> 12, Paternoster Row, London. Books for Presents, &*c. 15 POETRY ( Continual). OETHE'S FAUST. A NEW Translation in Rime. By the REV. C. KEGAN PAUL. Crown 8vo. 6s. " His translation is the most minutely accurate that has yet been produced. . . . Has special merits of its own, and will be useful and welcome to English students of Goethe." - Examiner. "Mr. Paul evidently understands 'Faust,' and his translation is as well suited to convey its meaning to English readers as any we have yet seen." Edinburgh Daily Review. "Mr. Paul is a zealous and a faithful interpreter." Saturday Review. ^ALDERON'S DRAMAS. \^/ THE PURGATORY OF ST. PATRICK. THE WONDERFUL MAGICIAN. LIFE is A DREAM. Translated from the Spanish. By DENIS FLORENCE MAC- CARTHY. los. These translations have never before been published. The " Purgatory of St. Patrick" is a new version, with new and elaborate historical notes. WALLED IN, AND OTHER POEMS. By the REV. HENRY J. BULKELEY. Crown 8vo. 5.5-. "A remarkable book of genuine poetry which will be welcome to all lovers of the Muse." Evening Standard. "'Walled in' is a lyrical monologue, in which an imprisoned nun, distracted with suffering and passion, tells the story of her love and the terrible punishment it brought upon herself and her lover. There is genuine power displayed in this poem, and also in another of a similar cast, entitled ' Not an Apology.'" Examiner. ". . . Describes with great felicity strong human emotions, as well as- the varied aspects of nature In a very different style, but one familiar to us of late years, the writer relates in blank verse a simple story called 'The Hat-band.' Poetical feeling is manifest here, and the diction of the poem is unimpeachable." Pall Mall Gazette. 65, Cornhill, & 12, Paternoster Row> London. 1 6 Books for Presents, S POETR Y ( Continued ). ONNETS, LYRICS, AND TRANSLATIONS. By the REV. C. TENNYSON TURNER. Crown 8vo. 4^. 6d. " Mr. Turner is a genuine poet ; his song is sweet and pure, beautiful in expression, and often subtle in thought." Pall Mall Gazette. "The dominant charm of all these sonnets is the pervading presence of the writer's personality, never obtruded but always impalpably diffused. The light of a devout, gentle, and kindly spirit, a delicate and graceful fancy, a keen intelligence irradiates these thoughts." " Mr. Turner's rare skill as a painter of landscape is the characteristic *that will be likely to excite most attention. With an eye prompt to catch the rich varieties of form and gradations of colour in nature, he unites a hand apt at rendering either her breadth or her delicacy." Contemporary Review. S S ONGS OF LIFE AND DEATH. By JOHN PAYNE, Author of "Intaglios," "Sonnets," "The Masque of Shadows," etc. Crown 8vo. $s. "The art of ballad-writing has long been lost in England, and Mr. Payne may claim to be its restorer. It is a perfect delight to meet with such a ballad as 'May Margaret' in the present volume." West~ minster Review*. ONGS OF TWO WORLDS. By a NEW WRITER. Fcap. Svo, cloth, $s. Second Edition. "The 'New Writer' is certainly no tyro. No one after reading the first two poems, almost perfect in rhythm and all the graceful reserve of true lyrical strength, can doubt that this book is the result of lengthened thought and assiduous training in poetical form. . . . These poems will assuredly take high rank among the class to which they belong." British Quarterly Review, April ist. " If these poems are the mere preludes of a mind growing in power and in inclination for verse, we have in them the promise of a fine poet. . . . The verse describing Socrates has the highest note of critical poetry." Spectator, February ijt/i. " Are we in this book making the acquaintance of a fine and original poet, or of a most artistic imitator? And our deliberate opinion is that the former hypothesis is the right one. It has a purity and delicacy of feeling like morning air." Graphic, March T.6th. 65, Corn/nil 9 6 s * 12, Paternoster JRow y London. Books for Presents, er. 17 E POETRY ( Continued}. ROS AGONISTES. By E. B. D. Crown 8vo, " The author of these verses has written a. very touching story of thc- human heart in the story he tells with such pathos and power, of ani affection cherished so long and so secretly. . . . It is not the least merit of these pages that they are everywhere illumined with moral and religious sentiment suggested, not paraded, of the brightest, purest character. " Standard. T HE DREAM AND THE DEED, AND OTHER POEMS. By PATRICK SCOTT, Author of "Footpaths between Two Worlds," etc. Fcap. 8vo, cloth, $s. "A bitter and able satire on the vice and follies of the day, literary, social, and political." Standard. "Shows real poetic power coupled with evidences of satirical energy.'* Edinburgh Daily Review. THE POI LEGENDS OF ST. PATRICK AND OTHER POEMS. By AUBREY DE VERE. Crown Svo. $s. "Mr. De Vere's versification in his earlier poems is characterised by- great sweetness and simplicity. He is master of his instrument, anc* rarely offends the ear with false notes. Poems such as these scarcely- admit of quotation, for their charm is not, and ought not to be, founc'i in isolated passages ; but we can promise the patient and thoughtful reader much pleasure in the perusal of this volume." Pall Mal^ Gazette. "We have marked, in almost every page, excellent touches, from, which we know not how to select. We have but space to commend^ the varied structure of his verse, the carefulness of his grammar, and; his excellent English. All who believe that poetry should raise and not debase the social ideal, all who think that wit should exalt our- standard of thought and manners, must welcome this contribution at once to our knowledge of the past and to the science of noble life." Saturday Revieiv. 65, Cor nh ill, 6 12, Paternoster Row, London. a 8 Books for Prcsents^&c. POETR Y ( Continued}. THE POETICAL AND PROSE WORKS OF ROBERT BUCHANAN. A Collected Edition, in 5 vols. VOL. I. CONTAINS : BALLADS AND ROMANCES. | BALLADS AND POEMS OF LIFE. VOL. ir. CONTAINS: BALLADS AND POEMS OF LIFE. | ALLEGORIES AND SONNETS. VOL. III. CONTAINS : CRUISKEEN SONNETS. | BOOK OF ORM. | POLITICAL MYSTICS. The Contents of the remaining Volumes will be duly announced. V IGNETTES IN RHYME, AND VERS DE SOClfiTE. Collected Verses. By AUSTIN DOBSON. Crown 8vo. Price $s. " His * Vignettes' are really clever, clear-cut, and careful." A thenczum. " We were hardly prepared for the touches of genuine beauty which V adorn so many of these little poems." Spectator. THE DISCIPLES. A New Poem. By HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON KING, Author of '' Aspromonte and other Poems." Crown 8vo. Price *js. 6d. The present work was commenced at the express instance of the great Italian patriot. Mazzini, and commemorates some of his associates and fellow workers men who looked up to him as their master and teacher. The author enjoyed the privilege of Mazzini's friendship, and the first part of this work was on its way to him when tidings reached this country that he had passed away. 65, 'Cofrrihill, &> 12, Paternoster Row^ London. Books for Presents, &c. 19 POETRY (Continued}. SONGS FOR SAILORS. By Dr. W. C. BENNETT. Dedicated by Special Request to H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh. Crown 8vo. 3^. 6d. With Steel Portrait and Illustrations. An Edition in Illustrated paper Covers. Price is. A SPROMONTE AND OTHER POEMS. Second Edition, cloth. $s. 6d. "The volume is anonymous, but there is no reason for the author to be ashamed of it. The 'Poems of Italy' are evidently inspired by genuine enthusiasm in the cause espoused ; and one of them, ' The Execution of Felice Orsini,' has much poetic merit, the event celebrated being told with dramatic force."At/tenteum. "The verse is fluent and free." Spectator. T HOUGHTS IN VERSE. By E. B. Small crown 8vo. Price is. 6d. This is a Collection of Verses expressive of religious feeling, written from a Theistic stand-point. Just out. COSMOS. A POEM. Small crown 8vo. Price $s. 6d. Subject NATURE IN THE PAST AND IN THE PRESENT. MAN IN THE PAST AND IN THE PRESENT. THE FUTURE. 65, Cornhill, 6 12, Paternoster Row, London. 20 Books for Presents, CORNHILL LIBRARY * OF FICTION. 35. 44: per volujpe. It is intended in this Series to produce books of such merit that readers will care to preserve them on their shelves. They are well printed on good paper, handsomely bound, with a Frontispiece, and are sold at the moderate price of 35. 6d. each. F OR LACK OF GOLD. By CHARLES GIBBON. GOD'S PROVIDENCE*HOUSE* By MRS.' G. BANKS. R IOBIN GRAY. By CHARLES GIBBON. With, a Frontispiece by Hennessy. ITTY. By Miss M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. READY MONEY MORTIBOY. A Matter-of-Fact Story. IRELL. By JOHN SAUNDERS, Author of "Abel Drake's Wife." H O NE OF TWO. By J. HAIN FRISWELL, Author of "The Gentle Life, "etc. A BEL DRAKE'S WIFE. By JOHN SAUNDERS. OTHER STANDARD NOVELS TO FOLLOW. 65, Cornhill, &* 12, Paternoster Row, London. FOUKTliliJN DAY USE RETURN TO DESK FROM WHICH BORROWED This book is due on the last date stamped below, or on the date to which renewed. Renewed books are subject to immediate recall. 16Mar'56HJ MAR 2 1956 LU 4Nov58FC REC'D LD AUG 2 8 1959 mffiHSm I: