Ah! thus we fondle Death, the soldier's mate, Blending his image with the hopes of youth To hallow all; meanwhile the hidden fate Chills not our fancies with the iron truth. Death from afar we call, and Death is here, To choose out him who wears the loftiest mien; And Grief, the cruel lord who knows no peer, Breaks through the shield of love to pierce our Queen. 1861. BOCONNOC Who so distraught could ramble here, From gentle beech to simple gorse, From glen to moor, nor cease to fear The world's impetuous bigot force, Which drives the young before they will, And when they will not drives them still. Come hither, thou that would'st forget The gamester's smile, the trader's vaunt, The statesman actor's face hard set, The kennel cry that cheers his taunt, Come where pure winds and rills combine To murmur peace round virtue's shrine. Virtue--men thrust her back, when these Rode down for Charles and right divine, And those with dogma Genevese Restored in faith their wavering line. No virtue in religious camps, No heathen oil in Gideon's lamps. And now, when forcing seasons bud With prophet, hero, saint, and quack, When creeds and fashions heat the blood, And transcendental tonguelets clack, Sweet Virtue's lyre we hardly know, And think her odes quite rococo. Well, be it Roman, be it worse, When Pelhams reigned in George's name Poets were safe from sneer or curse Who gave a patriot classic fame, And goodness, void of passion, knit The hearts of Lyttelton and Pitt. That age was as a neutral vale 'Twixt uplands of tumultuous strife, And turning from the sects to hail Composure and a graceful life, Here, where the fern-clad streamlet flows, Boconnoc's guests ensured repose. That charm remains; and he who knows The root and stock of freedom's laws, Unscared by frenzied nations' throes, And hugging yet the good old cause, Finds in the shade these beeches cast The wit, the fragrance of the past. Octave of St. Bartholomew, 1862. A SKETCH AFTER BRANTOME The door hath closed behind the sighing priest, The last absolving Latin duly said, And night, barred slowly backward from the East, Lets in the dawn to mock a sleepless bed; The bed of one who yester even took From scented aumbries store of silk and lace, From caskets beads and rings, for one last look, One look, which left the teardrops on her face; A lady, who hath loved the world, the court, Loved youth and splendour, loved her own sweet soul, And meekly stoops to learn that life is short, Dame Nature's pitiful gift, a beggar's dole.