When we conned o'er Thucydides,

Or recited Demosthenes.

L'ENVOI

Ancient sages, pardon these

Somewhat doubtful quantities.

H. J. DeBurgh.

ON THE OXFORD CARRIER

HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove

That he could never die while he could move;

So hung his destiny never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot;
Made of sphere metal, never to decay

Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime

'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time
And like an engine moved with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceased, he ended straight.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,

Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd,

Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
"Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd,
"If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,
For one carrier put down to make six bearers."
Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his cart went light:
His leisure told him that his time was come.
And lack of load made his life burdensome.
That even to his last breath (there be that say't),
As he were press'd to death, he cried, "More weight;"
But, had his doings lasted as they were,

He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate

Ninety-nine in the Shade

Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,

Yet (strange to think) his wane was his increase:
His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,

Only remains the superscription.

781

John Milton.

NINETY-NINE IN THE SHADE

O FOR a lodge in a garden of cucumbers!
O for an iceberg or two at control!

O for a vale which at mid-day the dew cumbers!
O for a pleasure-trip up to the pole!

O for a little one-story thermometer,

With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row!

O for a big double-barreled hygrometer,

To measure this moisture that rolls from my brow!

O that this cold world were twenty times colder!
(That's irony red-hot it seemeth to me);

O for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder!
O what a comfort an ague would be!

O for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven,
Scooped in the rock under cataract vast!
O for a winter of discontent even!

O for wet blankets judiciously cast!

O for a soda-fount spouting up boldly
From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky!
O for proud maiden to look on me coldly,
Freezing my soul with a glance of her eye!

Then O for a draught from a cup of cold pizen,
And O for a resting-place in the cold grave!
With a bath in the Styx where the thick shadow lies on
And deepens the chill of its dark-running wave.

Rossiter Johnson.

THE TRIOLET

EASY is the triolet,

If you really learn to make it!
Once a neat refrain you get,

Easy is the triolet.

As you see!-I pay my debt

With another rhyme. Deuce take it,

Easy is the triolet,

If you really learn to make it!

William Ernest Henley.

THE RONDEAU

You bid me try, Blue-eyes, to write
A Rondeau. What! forthwith?-to-night?
Reflect? Some skill I have, 'tis true;
But thirteen lines!-and rhymed on two!-
"Refrain," as well. Ah, hapless plight!

Still there are five lines-ranged aright.
These Gallic bonds, I feared, would fright
My easy Muse. They did, till you-

You bid me try!

That makes them eight.-The port's in sight; "Tis all because your eyes are bright!

Now just a pair to end in "oo,”

When maids command, what can't we do? Behold! The Rondeau-tasteful, light

You bid me try!

Austin Dobson.

1. WHY all this toil for triumphs of an hour? 2. Life's a short summer, man a flower.

3. By turns we catch the vital breath and die4. The cradle and the tomb, alas! so nigh.

5. To be, is better far than not to be.

6. Though all man's life may seem a tragedy;

7. But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb, 8. The bottom is but shallow whence they come.

9. Your fate is but the common lot of all: 10. Unmingled joys here to no man befall, 11. Nature to each allots his proper sphere; 12. Fortune makes folly her peculiar care; 13. Custom does often reason overrule,

14. And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool.

15. Live well; how long or short, permit to Heaven; 16. They who forgive most, shall be most forgiven. 17. Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face18. Vile intercourse where virtue has no place. 19. Then keep each passion down, however dear; 20. Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. 21. Her sensual snares, let faithless pleasure lay, 22. With craft and skill, to ruin and betray; 23. Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise. 24. We masters grow of all that we despise. 25. Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem; 26. Riches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 27. Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave, 28. The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 29. What is ambition?-'tis a glorious cheat!30. Only destructive to the brave and great.

11. Young; 2. Dr. Johnson; 3. Pope; 4. Prior; 5. Sewell: 6. Spenser; 7. Daniell; 8. Sir Walter Raleigh; 9. Longfellow; 10. Southwell; 11. Congreve: 12. Churchill; 13. Rochester; 14. Armstrong; 15. Milton; 16. Bailey: 17. Trench: 18. Somerville: 19. Thomson; 20. Byron; 21. Smollett: 22. Crabbe: 23. Massinger; 24. Cowley; 25. Beattie; 26. Cowper; 27. Sir Walter Davenant; 28. Gray; 29. Willis: 30. Addison; 31. Dryden; 32. Francis Quarles; 33. Watkins; 34. Herrick; 35. William Mason; 36. Hill; 37. Dana; 38. Shakespeare.

31. What's all the gaudy glitter of a crown? 32. The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 33. How long we live, not years but actions tell; 34. That man lives twice who lives the first life well. 35. Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 36. Whom Christians worship yet not comprehend. 37. The trust that's given guard, and to yourself be just; 38. For, live we how we can, yet die we must.

Unknown.

ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART

BLIND Thamyris, and blind Mæonides,
Pursue the triumph and partake the gale!
Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears,
Like angels' visits, few and far between,
Deck the long vista of departed years.

Man never is, but always to be bless'd;
The tenth transmitter of a foolish face,
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest,
And makes a sunshine in the shady place.

For man the hermit sigh'd, till woman smiled,
To waft a feather or to drown a fly,
(In wit a man, simplicity a child,)
With silent finger pointing to the sky.

But fools rush in where angels fear to tread
Far out amid the melancholy main;

As when a vulture on Imaus bred,
Dies of a rose in aromatic pain.

Laman Blanchard