Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best With the scent of the limes, when the bees Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest, While the vintagers lay at their ease, Had he sung in our northern degrees, He’d have sought a securer retreat, He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest And the daffodil’s fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But _we_, that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! ENVOY. Ah Constance, the land of our quest It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! VILLANELLE (TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”) VILLANELLE, why art thou mute? Hath the singer ceased to sing? Hath the Master lost his lute? Many a pipe and scrannel flute On the breeze their discords fling; Villanelle, why art _thou_ mute? Sound of tumult and dispute, Noise of war the echoes bring; Hath the Master lost his lute? Once he sang of bud and shoot In the season of the Spring; Villanelle, why art thou mute? Fading leaf and falling fruit Say, “The year is on the wing, Hath the Master lost his lute?” Ere the axe lie at the root, Ere the winter come as king, Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the Master lost his lute? TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS. Αίαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾱπον ὄλωνται ὕστερον άυ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι άμμες δ’ οι μεγάλοι καὶ χαρτερί οι σοφοὶ ἄνδρες ὁππότε πρᾱτα θάνωμες άνάχοοι ἔν χθονὶ χοίλα ‘εύδομες ἔυ μάλα μαχρὸν ἀπέμονα νήγρετον ‘ύπνον. ALAS, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed, For these the grave has lost his sting, Alas, for _us_ no second spring, Who sleep without awakening, And, dead, for ever more are dead, Alas, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed! Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave That boast themselves the sons of men! Once they go down into the grave— Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,— They perish and have none to save, They are sown, and are not raised again; Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, That boast themselves the sons of men! BALLADE OF CRICKET. TO T. W. LANG.