Oh, I am weary of idle songs Of lords and ladies and olden time, All their mirth to the past belongs, Sorrow sounds in our present rhyme. Joy-bells change to the death-bell's chime, Age is bitter and youth hath fled, Gone is the season of hope sublime, The past is past, and the dead are dead. II. Ladies I loved in those far-off days, Where are ye now with your golden hair? My locks are white neath a crown of bays, But youth's rose-crown was to me more fair. My heart was captured in many a snare Enmeshed in ringlets of gold outspread, Now in my heart lurks a bleak despair. The past is past, and the dead are dead. III. Many the goblets of wine I quaffed To health of dames who were fair and frail, A kiss of the hand and a plumed hat doffed. Then away to the wars in a coat of mail. But, ah, that armour could not prevail Against your eyes and your lips so red, Nay, but such thoughts are a twice-told tale, The past is past, and the dead are dead. ENVOI. Time, wilt thou never let me forget Those perished days till I'm cased in lead? Folly to dream with such vague regret, The past is past, and the dead are dead. "The style is Villon, I see," observed Beaumont, when the poet ended. "It's more than the genius is," muttered Dick, who cherished a deadly hatred of Ferdinand's poetry. "I like your refrain, my dear Ferdinand," observed the vicar graciously; "it has a certain pleasant lilt about it, but I'm afraid your verses are somewhat gruesome. Still, they have merit. Oh, yes, they have merit." "I'm glad you think so," said the modest poet humbly, to whom praise was as rain on thirsty flowers. "I hope to do better soon." "I've no doubt you will," said Beaumont, rather sorry for the poor youth, who was blushing painfully. "Your verses are, to a certain extent, an echo of Villon, still you have a musical ear, and that is a great thing. If I may be permitted to give an opinion I rather think your views are a trifle pessimistic." "Just what we were talking about," cried Reginald gaily. "A regret for the past and a lament for the present." "It is the spirit of the age," sighed Ferdinand, putting the poem in his pocket. "It is hard to escape its influence." "If any one had a chance of escaping it you ought to be the individual," said Beaumont, with a smile. "In London, where the latest ideas are floating in the air, it is difficult to be original, but out here, where the work is standing still, you ought to have struck out a new line. I'm afraid your poetry comes from books, not from Nature." "Why so?" demanded Ferdinand, rather nettled. "By the very fact that you used in that ballade an exotic form of rhyme, and the ideas therein are the dreary, hopeless sorrows of a worn-out world. Sing, like Herrick of the things around you, 'Of brooks, of blossoms, birds and bowers, Of April, May, of June and July flowers,'