――――:o:―――― GILLIAN. _Jacke and Jille_ I have made me an end of the moods of maidens, I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love; From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens, The woes that madden, the words that move. In the dim last days of a spent September, When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain; Before you forget, and while I remember, I cry as I shall cry never again. _Went up a hylle_ Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels Of misty meadows, and streams that stray; We raised us at eve from our rosy revels, With faces aflame for the death of the day; With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver, Low lids that cling to the last of love: We left the levels, we left the river, And turned us and toiled to the air above. _to fetch a paile of water_, By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow, The fates that haunt us, the grief that grips―― Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk to-morrow―― The wells of lethe for wearied lips. With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter, With limp knees loosed as of priests that pray, We bowed us and bent to the white well-water, We dipped and we drank it and bore away. _Jacke felle downe_ The low light trembled on languid lashes, The haze of your hair on my mouth was blown, Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes, As night’s dim net on the day was thrown. What was it meant for, or made for, that minute, But that our lives in delight should be dipt? Was it yours, or my fault, or fate’s, that in it Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt? _And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge after_. Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder, Love from our limbs as a shift was shed, But paused a moment, to watch with wonder The pale pained body, the bursten head. While our sad souls still with regrets are riven, While the blood burns bright on our bruisèd brows, I have set you free, and I stand forgiven―― And now I had better go and call my cows. From a scarce little pamphlet entitled “_Poems and Parodies_, by Two Undergrads.” Oxford. B. H. Blackwell, 1880. Price one shilling. HOW JACK HARRIS BECAME ÆSTHETIC. Ye Muses nine that in Arcadia dwell, Quit Pindus and the cold Castalian well, And me your lowliest follower inspire With such clear flame as long ago did fire The mighty lips of Blackstone; so may I, A feeble trump of truth that cannot die, Clearly proclaim and on the roll of fame Inscribe, however humbly, my poor name. _Jack Harris before his Conversion._