Life is a draught, good sir; its brevity Gives you and me our measures, and thereby Has docked your virtue to a tankard's span, And left of my criterion--a Cri'! RETROSPECTION. After C. S. C. When the hunter-star Orion (Or, it may be, Charles his Wain) Tempts the tiny elves to try on All their little tricks again; When the earth is calmly breathing Draughts of slumber undefiled, And the sire, unused to teething, Seeks for errant pins his child; When the moon is on the ocean, And our little sons and heirs From a natural emotion Wish the luminary theirs; Then a feeling hard to stifle, Even harder to define, Makes me feel I 'd give a trifle For the days of Auld Lang Syne. James--for we have been as brothers (Are, to speak correctly, twins), Went about in one another's Clothing, bore each other's sins, Rose together, ere the pearly Tint of morn had left the heaven, And retired (absurdly early) Simultaneously at seven-- James, the days of yore were pleasant. Sweet to climb for alien pears Till the irritated peasant Came and took us unawares; Sweet to devastate his chickens, As the ambush'd catapult Scattered, and the very dickens Was the natural result; Sweet to snare the thoughtless rabbit; Break the next-door neighbour's pane; Cultivate the smoker's habit On the not-innocuous cane; Leave the exercise unwritten; Systematically cut Morning school, to plunge the kitten In his bath, the water-butt. Age, my James, that from the cheek of Beauty steals its rosy hue, Has not left us much to speak of: But 'tis not for this I rue. Beauty with its thousand graces, Hair and tints that will not fade, You may get from many places Practically ready-made. No; it is the evanescence Of those lovelier tints of Hope-- Bubbles, such as adolescence Joys to win from melted soap-- Emphasizing the conclusion That the dreams of Youth remain Castles that are An delusion (Castles, that's to say, in Spain). Age thinks 'fit,' and I say 'fiat.' Here I stand for Fortune's butt, As for Sunday swains to shy at Stands the stoic coco-nut. If you wish it put succinctly, Gone are all our little games; But I thought I 'd say distinctly What I feel about it, James. WHY THIS VOLUME IS SO THIN. In youth I dreamed, as other youths have dreamt, Of love, and thrummed an amateur guitar To verses of my own,--a stout attempt To hold communion with the Evening Star I wrote a sonnet, rhymed it, made it scan. Ah me! how trippingly those last lines ran.--