We meet not, on our upland moor, The singing Maid of Helicon, You may not hear her music pure Float on the mountain meres withdrawn; The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone! But we have songs that please us well And flowers we love to look upon.

More sweet than Southern myrtles far The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen; p. 42Parnassus names the flower, the star, That shines among the well-heads green The bright Marsh-asphodels between— Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel May crown the Northern Muse a queen

p. 42

p. 43CELIA’S EYES

p. 43

PASTICHE

PASTICHE

Tell me not that babies dwell In the deeps of Celia’s eyes; Cupid in each hazel well Scans his beauties with surprise, And would, like Narcissus, drown In my Celia’s eyes of brown.

Tell

Tell me not that any goes Safe by that enchanted place; Eros dwells with Anteros In the garden of her Face, Where like friends who late were foes Meet the white and crimson Rose.

p. 44BRITANNIA

p. 44

FROM JULES LEMAÎTRE

FROM JULES LEMAÎTRE

Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough, Red cherries in the dawning, and more white Than milk or white camellias is thy brow; And as the golden corn thy hair is bright, The corn that drinks the Sun’s less fair than thou; While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now—  Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau’s delight.

Thy

Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone, Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil, Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale, Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and intone?

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