ENVOY. In the work-a-day world, for its needs and woes. There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime Then hey! for the ripple of laughing rhyme! A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH. OF THE SPANISH ARMADA. King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us, He was coming to fagot and stack us; His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,— Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; But where are the galleons of Spain? ENVOY. Gloriana! the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, And where are the galleons of Spain? THE PARADOX OF TIME. (A VARIATION ON RONSARD.) "Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, madame! Las le temps non: mais nous nous en allons !" Time goes, you say? Ah no! Or else, were this not so, Ours is the eye's deceit Of men whose flying feet Lead through some landscape low; We pass, and think we see The earth's fixed surface flee : Alas, Time stays,—we go! Once in the days of old Your locks were curling gold, And mine had shamed the crow. Now in the self-same stage, We've reached the silver age; Time goes, you say?— ah no! Many Shapes Broze THE TWO MYSTERIES. We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day— Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say. Life is a mystery as deep as ever death can be; Yet oh, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see! Then might they say-these vanished ones—and blessed is the thought; "So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you naught; We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death— The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, INVERTED. Youth has its griefs, its disappointments keen, And age has pleasures, rosy, fresh and warm, Youth has its losses, sad and desolate; Its wreck of precious freight where all was sent; Its blight of trust, its helpless heart of fate, For life is but a day; and, dawn or eve, The shadows must be long when suns are low. Old age may be surprised and loth to leave, THE GRASS-WORLD. Oh, life is rife in the heart of the year, |