The burden of set phrases. Thou shalt hear The same drear murmurs breathed from every side: ‘Something is wrong with the Gulf Stream, I fear.’ ‘Through cycle wet the decade now doth glide.’ ‘The sun is “spot”-less, and ashamed would hide.’ Dull ign’rance with long words did aye combine! And thou shalt half believe and half deride Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of lost leisure. Thou shalt grieve By rain-vexed stream, drenched moor, or seashore dead; And say at night, ‘Would I had had no leave!’ And say at dawn, ‘Would that my leave were sped!’ The water of affliction and the bread For food and for attire shall then be thine, Goloshed beneath, umbrellaed overhead, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of cold hearthstones. Thou shalt see Pale willow shreds and gold above the green; And as the willow so thy face shall be, And no more as the thing before-time seen. And thou shalt say of sunshine, ‘It hath been,’ And, chilling, watch the chilly light decline; And shivering-fits shall take thy breath between Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of sad sayings. In that day Thou shalt tell all thy summers o’er, and tell Thy joys and thy delights in each, and say How one was calm and one was changeable, And sweet were all to hear and sweet to smell; But now of passing hours scarce one doth shine Of twenty. In the rest deep gloom doth dwell. Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of mixed seasons. Snow in spring, Thaw, and then frost, with each its miseries; No summer, though the days be shortening; No autumn-promise from the fields and trees; With sad face turned towards Christmas, that foresees Huge bills for fuel, (and yet for fires doth pine;) Rheumatics, pleurisy, and lung-disease, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of umbrellas. In thy sight Dawn’s gray or vesper’s red may promise much, Yet shalt thou never venture day nor night Without that ‘little shadow’ in thy clutch. Horn of rhinoceros and ebon crutch Shall unmolested in their stand recline; Thy trusty Penang shall forget thy touch, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. The burden of sham gladness. In desire (The substance lost) for shadows of delight, Though underfoot the trodden lawn be mire, Tea, tennis, and Terpsichore invite. Go, then! and let thy face with smiles be dight, To hollow joy’s ordeal thyself resign Till dreary daylight yield to drearier night, Anno Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. L’ENVOY. Brave hearts, and ye whom hope yet quickeneth, Hope on; next summer may perchance be fine. The life grows short, and soon will come the death Anni Salutis eighteen seventy-nine. ZIEGELSTEIN. (_Goymour Cuthbert._) ―――― SECOND PRIZE.