"Oh, what is that glides quickly where velvet flowers grow thickly, Their scent comes rich and sickly?" "A scaled and hooded worm." "Oh, what's that in the hollow, so pale I quake to follow?" "Oh, that's a thin dead body which waits the eternal term." "Turn again, O my sweetest,--turn again, false and fleetest: This beaten way thou beatest, I fear is hell's own track." "Nay, too steep for hill mounting; nay, too late for cost counting: This down-hill path is easy, but there's no turning back." XCVI. TOUJOURS AMOUR. EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.--1833- Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, At what age does love begin? Your blue eyes have scarcely seen Summers three, my fairy queen, But a miracle of sweets, Soft approaches, sly retreats, Show the little archer there, Hidden in your pretty hair; When didst learn a heart to win? Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin! "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, "I can't tell you if I try. Tis so long I can't remember: Ask some younger lass than I." Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, Do your heart and head keep pace? When does hoary Love expire, When do frosts put out the fire? Can its embers burn below All that chill December snow? Care you still soft hands to press, Bonny heads to smooth and bless? When does Love give up the chase? Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! "Ah!" the wise old lips reply, "Youth may pass and strength may die; But of Love I can't foretoken: Ask some older sage than I!" XCVII. ENGLAND. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.--1836- While men pay reverence to mighty things, They must revere thee, thou blue-cinctured isle Of England--not to-day, but this long while In the front of nations, Mother of great kings, Soldiers, and poets. Round thee the Sea flings His steel-bright arm, and shields thee from the guile And hurt of France. Secure, with august smile, Thou sittest, and the East its tribute brings. Some say thy old-time power is on the wane, Thy moon of grandeur fill'd, contracts at length-- They see it darkening down from less to less. Let but a hostile hand make threat again, And they shall see thee in thy ancient strength, Each iron sinew quivering, lioness! * * * * * _Such kings of shreds have woo'd and won her, Such crafty knaves her laurel own'd, It has become almost an honor Not to be crown'd._ THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. _On Popularity._ XCVIII. ROCOCO. THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. By studying my lady's eyes I've grown so learned day by day, So Machiavelian in this wise, That when I send her flowers, I say To each small flower (no matter what, Geranium, pink, or tuberose, Syringa, or forget-me-not, Or violet) before it goes: