ENVOY. Princess, my lips can never frame My whole acknowledgments, or half; For this, I feel, at last, is fame— A Lady wants my autograph! BALLADE FOR A BABY. (FROM “THE GARLAND OF RACHEL.”) ’Tis distance lends, the poet says, Enchantment to the view, And this makes possible the praise Which I bestow on you. For babies rosy-pink of hue I do not _always_ care, But distance paints the mountains blue, And Rachel always fair. Ah Time, speed on her flying days, Bring back my youth that flew, That she may listen to my lays Where Merton stock-doves coo; That I may sing afresh, anew, My songs, now faint and rare, Time, make me always twenty-two, And Rachel always fair. Nay, long ago, down dusky ways Fled Cupid and his crew; Life brings not back the morning haze, The dawning and the dew; And other lips must sigh and sue, And younger lovers dare To hint that Love is always true, And Rachel always fair. ENVOY. Princess, let Age bid Youth adieu, Adieu to this despair, To me, who thus despairing woo, And Rachel always fair. BALLADE AMOUREUSE. AFTER FROISSART. Not Jason nor Medea wise, I crave to see, nor win much lore, Nor list to Orpheus’ minstrelsies; Nor Her’cles would I see, that o’er The wide world roamed from shore to shore; Nor, by St. James, Penelope,— Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: To see my Love suffices me! Virgil and Cato, no man vies With them in wealth of clerkly store; I would not see them with mine eyes; Nor him that sailed, _sans_ sail nor oar, Across the barren sea and hoar, And all for love of his ladye; Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more: To see my Love suffices me! I heed not Pegasus, that flies As swift as shafts the bowmen pour; Nor famed Pygmalion’s artifice, Whereof the like was ne’er before; Nor Oléus, that drank of yore The salt wave of the whole great sea: Why? dost thou ask? ’Tis as I swore— To see my Love suffices me! BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE. The modish Airs, The Tansey Brew, The _Swains_ and _Fairs_ In curtained Pew; Nymphs KNELLER drew, Books BENTLEY read,— Who knows them, who? QUEEN ANNE is dead! We buy her Chairs, Her China blue, Her red-brick Squares We build anew; But ah! we rue, When all is said, The tale o’er-true, QUEEN ANNE is dead! Now _Bulls_ and _Bears_, A ruffling Crew, With Stocks and Shares, With Turk and Jew, Go bubbling through The Town ill-bred: The World’s askew, QUEEN ANNE is dead! ENVOY. Friend, praise the new; The old is fled: _Vivat_ FROU-FROU! QUEEN ANNE is dead! BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE. (AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.)