When SILVIA'S eyes assail, _Fa la_! When SILVIA'S eyes assail, No feint the arts of war can show, No counterstroke avail; Naught skills but arms away to throw, And kneel before that lovely foe, When SILVIA'S eyes assail! Yet is all truce in vain, _Fa la_! Yet is all truce in vain, Since she that spares doth still pursue To vanquish once again; And naught remains for man to do But fight once more, to yield anew, And so all truce is vain! A GARDEN SONG. (To W. E. H.) Here, in this sequestered close Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and degrees. All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus,-- More had not Alcinoues! Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else--afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are. Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,-- Now that mood and moment please, Find the fair Pierides! A CHAPTER OF FROISSART. (GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR.) You don't know Froissart now, young folks. This age, I think, prefers recitals Of high-spiced crime, with "slang" for jokes, And startling titles; But, in my time, when still some few Loved "old Montaigne," and praised Pope's _Homer_ (Nay, thought to style him "poet" too, Were scarce misnomer), Sir John was less ignored. Indeed, I can re-call how Some-one present (Who spoils her grandson, Frank!) would read And find him pleasant; For,--by this copy,--hangs a Tale. Long since, in an old house in Surrey, Where men knew more of "morning ale" Than "Lindley Murray," In a dim-lighted, whip-hung hall, 'Neath Hogarth's "Midnight Conversation," It stood; and oft 'twixt spring and fall, With fond elation, I turned the brown old leaves. For there All through one hopeful happy summer, At such a page (I well knew where), Some secret comer, Whom I can picture, 'Trix, like you (Though scarcely such a colt unbroken), Would sometimes place for private view A certain token;-- A rose-leaf meaning "Garden Wall," An ivy-leaf for "Orchard corner," A thorn to say "Don't come at all,"-- Unwelcome warner!-- Not that, in truth, our friends gainsaid; But then Romance required dissembling, (Ann Radcliffe taught us that!) which bred Some genuine trembling;