Ah Constance, the land of our quest It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! VILLANELLE. (TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”) VILLANELLE, why art thou mute? Hath the singer ceased to sing? Hath the Master lost his lute? Many a pipe and scrannel flute On the breeze their discords fling; Villanelle, why art _thou_ mute? Sound of tumult and dispute, Noise of war the echoes bring; Hath the Master lost his lute? Once he sang of bud and shoot In the season of the Spring; Villanelle, why art thou mute? Fading leaf and falling fruit Say, “The year is on the wing, Hath the Master lost his lute?” Ere the axe lie at the root, Ere the winter come as king, Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the Master lost his lute? TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS. Αιαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μὲν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾶπον ὄλωντα ὕστερον αὖ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι ἄμμες δ’ ὁι μεγάλοι καὶ καρτεροί, οἱ σοφοὶ ἄνδες ὁππότε πρᾶτα θάνωμες, ἀνάκοοι ἐν χθονὶ κοίλᾳ, εὕδομες εὖ μάλα μακρὸν ἀτέρμονα νήγρετον ὕπνον. ALAS, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed, For these the grave has lost his sting, Alas, for _us_ no second spring, Who sleep without awakening, And, dead, for ever more are dead, Alas, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed! Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, That boast themselves the sons of men! Once they go down into the grave— Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,— They perish and have none to save, They are sown, and are not raised again; Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, That boast themselves the sons of men! BALLADE OF CRICKET. TO T. W. LANG. THE burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,” And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”— “This is the end of every man’s desire!” The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower, When “bailers” break not in their wonted way, And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore, When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,— “This is the end of every man’s desire!”