The curtains have been dyed; but there, Unbroken, is the same, The very same crack’d pane of glass On which I scratch’d her name. Yes, there’s her tiny flourish still; It used to so enchant her To link two happy names in one―― _O tempora mutantur!_ FREDERICK LOCKER. ―――― TEMPORA MUTANTUR! No pea-shooters upon the way No careless chaff and banter No passing blows to take and pay! _O Tempora mutantur!_ The traps go soberly along, Scarce one is in a canter, The language even isn’t strong―― _O Tempora mutantur!_ The times were very different when I went with my enchanter; Young men in those days were young men; _O Tempora mutantur!_ Of course you’ll say its for the best (My Boy, pass the decanter!) But now your Derby’s lost its zest _O Tempora mutantur!_ CATULLUS of Fleet Street. ――――:o:―――― BRAMBLE-RISE. What changes meet my wistful eyes In quiet little Bramble-Rise, The pride of all the shire; How alter’d is each pleasant nook;―― And used the dumpy church to look So dumpy in the spire? This village is no longer mine; And though the Inn has changed its sign, The beer may not be stronger; The river, dwindled by degrees, Is now a brook, the cottages Are cottages no longer. The mud is brick, the thatch is slate, The pound has tumbled out of date, And all the trees are stunted: Surely these thistles once grew figs, These geese were swans, and once these pigs More musically grunted. Where boys and girls pursued their sports A locomotive puffs and snorts, And gets my malediction; The turf is dust――the elves are fled―― The ponds have shrunk――and tastes have spread To photograph and fiction. Ah! there’s a face I know again, There’s Patty trotting down the lane To fill her pail with water; Yes, Patty! but I fear she’s not The tricksey Pat that used to trot, But Patty,――Patty’s daughter! * * * * * FREDERICK LOCKER. ―――― A SONG AT SIXTY. My boyhood’s home! How clearly rise Thy varied scenes before mine eyes In fair perspective. I hear the bull-frogs in the pond―― The whippoorwill’s weird notes respond To thoughts reflective. Again I see the old “worm fence,” Around the pasture-lot from whence The cows lowed over At milking time, as if they smelled The many-windowed barn, that held The corn and clover. I see, beyond the garden-gate The gray bull-calf, that used to wait To “hook” that gate off―― And flower-beds, where browsed the bees ’Neath overhanging cherry-trees Whose twigs he ate off.