Then faithful comrades bind, and bind me fast―― My lips are fain for kisses and for wine; But so I fail of Ithaca at last, What gain were mine? GOSSAMER. TO ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Magician of song and of sound that enslaves the ear, Subtle and sweet are the arts which to thee belong; Varied thy chant as the lark’s which is heard so clear, Magician of song. Divine as the sound of billows that swell and throng And crash with a music that gods might love to hear; So gather thy waves of language rapid and strong, Bursting in pæans of Love, and of Joy, and Fear, Welcome thy strain as a bird’s the flowers among, Welcome thy notes as blossoms that light the year, Magician of song. APSLEY ROBERTS. ――――:o:―――― A TRIO OF ROUNDELS. I was born like other men, And at last shall die. Who will live for ever then? Just a smile, a sigh, Tears a few, a smile again, Some endeavours high. Who shines grander, truer, when Placed in contrast by Grunting swine or clucking hen? Half-a-crown, that cannot last for ever, Yet who is there takes it with a frown? Who seeks not with passionate endeavour Half-a-crown? Who despises it, in all the town, You shall find a human being never From the tinselled monarch to the clown. Let a man be dull of brain or clever, Be his lot, or up in life or down, Easily from him you shall not sever Half-a-crown. Around and about the singer his song disperses He flings to the heavens a crashing mellifluous shout. Vast harmonies mingled for ever of blessings and curses Around and about. In melody filling and thrilling his voice rings out In strivings splendidly human. Better or worse is The joy of the poor or the rich, of the lord or the lout; What sirens ever sang sweeter? What wine of Circe’s, More quickly dispelled the fumes of a priestly doubt, Than this of the bay-crowned Man who is flinging his verses Around and about? _St. James’s Gazette._ ――――:o:―――― THE NEW JACK HORNER. The pigmy and portative Horner, Whom all men denominate Jack, Against an approximate corner Had set his exiguous back. On his knee, formed of paste that was puffy, Was a pie they for Yule-tide had made; Into which his fat fingers to stuff he No palpable moment delayed. And his voice told of raptures and roses, As, plucking a plum from that pie, He cried (as the legend discloses), “What a plump pie-ous urchin am I!” _Funny Folks Annual._ 1884. ――――