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ROCOCO.

Y studying my lady's eyes

I've grown so learnéd day by day, So Machiavelian in this wise,

That when I send her flowers, I say

To each small flower (no matter what;

Geranium, pink, or tuberose,

Syringa, or forget-me-not,

Or violet) before it goes:

"Be not triumphant, little flower,

When on her haughty heart you lie,

But modestly enjoy your hour:

She'll weary of you by and by."

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

DORUS TO LYCORIS,

WHO REPROVED HIM FOR INCONSTANCY.

HY'should I constant be?

The bird in yonder tree,
This leafy summer,

Hath not his last year's mate,

Nor dreads to venture fate

With a new-comer.

Why should I fear to sip

The sweets of each red lip?
In every bower

The roving bee may taste

(Lest aught should run to waste)
Each fresh-blown flower.

The trickling rain doth fall

Upon us one and all;

The south wind kisses

The saucy milkmaid's cheek,

The nun's, demure and meek,

Nor any misses.

Then ask no more of me

That I should constant be,
Nor eke desire it;

Take not such idle pains

To hold our love in chains,
Nor coax, nor hire it.

Rather, like some bright elf,
Be all things in thyself
For ever changing,

So that thy latest mood

May ever bring new food
To fancy ranging.

Forget what thou wast first,
And, as I loved thee erst
In soul and feature,

I'll love thee out of mind

When each new morn shall find

Thee a new creature.

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.

I.

WAY! away! The dream was vain ;

We meet too soon, or meet too late :
Still wear, as best you may, the chain

Your own hands forged about your fate,
Who could not wait!

II.

What you had given your life away

Before you found what most life misses ?
Forsworn the bridal dream, you say,

Of that ideal love, whose kisses

Are vain as this is !

III.

Well, I have left upon your mouth

The seal I know must burn there yet ;

My claim is set upon your youth;

My sign upon your soul is set ;—

Dare you forget?

IV.

And you'll haunt, I know, where music plays,
Yet find a pain in music's tone;

You'll blush, of course, when others praise
That beauty scarcely now your own.

What's done, is done!

V.

For me, you say, the world is wide-
Too wide to find the grave I seek!
Enough! whatever now betide,
No greater pang can blanch my cheek.
Hush!-do not speak.

ROBERT, LORD LYTTON.

៥

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