When Gladstone, bluest of the blue, Read all Augustine's folios through; When France was tame, and no one knew We and the Czar would fight. "Sixty years since" (said dear old Scott; We're bound, you know, to quote Sir Wat) This isle had not a sweeter spot Than Neville's Court by Granta; No Newnham then, no kirtled scribes, No Clelia to harangue the tribes, No race for girls, no apple bribes To tempt an Atalanta. We males talked fast, we meant to be World-betterers all at twenty-three, But somehow failed to level thee, Oh battered fort of Edom! Into the breach our daughters press, Brave patriots in unwarlike dress, Adepts at thought-in-idleness, Sweet devotees of freedom. And now it is your turn, fair soul, To see the fervent car-wheels roll, Your rivals clashing past the goal, Some sly Milanion leading. Ah! with them may your Genius bring Some Celia, some Miss Mannering; For youthful friendship is a thing More precious than succeeding. SAPPHO'S CURSING Woman dead, lie there; No record of thee Shall there ever be, Since thou dost not share Roses in Pieria grown. In the deathful cave, With the feeble troop Of the folk that droop, Lurk and flit and crave, Woman severed and far-flown. A SERVING MAN'S EPITAPH A slave--oh yes, a slave! But in a freeman's grave. By thee, when work was done, Timanthes, foster-son, By thee whom I obeyed, My master, I was laid. Live long, from trouble free; But if thou com'st to me, Paying to age thy debt, Thine am I, master, yet. A SONG TO A SINGER Dura fida rubecula, Cur moraris in arbore Dum cadunt folia et brevi Flavet luce November. Quid boni tibi destinat Hora crastina? quid petes Antris ex hiemalibus? Quid speras oriturum? Est ut hospita te vocet Myrtis, et reseret fores, Ut te vere nitentibus Emiretur ocellis. Quod si contigerit tibi, Ter beata vocaberis, Invidenda volucribus, Invidenda poetae. AGE AND GIRLHOOD [Illustration: Greek Passage-199] A dry cicale chirps to a lass making hay, "Why creak'st thou, Tithonus?" quoth she. "I don't play; It doubles my toil, your importunate lay; I've earned a sweet pillow, lo! Hesper is nigh; I clasp a good wisp, and in fragrance I lie; But thou art unwearied, and empty, and dry." A LEGEND OF PORTO SANTO A time-worn sage without a home, A man of dim and tearful sight, Up from the hallowed haven clomb In lowly longing for the height. He loiters on a half-way rock To hear the waves that pant and seethe, Which give the beats of Nature's clock To mortals conscious that they breathe.