JOHN.

The waits are whining in the cold

With clavicorn and clarigold;

They play them like a crumpled horn,

The clarigold and clavicorn.

37

7.AN ODE TO SPRING IN THE METROPOLIS.

(AFTER R. LE G.)

Is this the Seine?

And am I altogether wrong

About the brain,

Dreaming I hear the British tongue?

Dear Heaven! what a rhyme!

And yet ’tis all as good

As some that I have fashioned in my time,

Like bud and wood;

And on the other hand you couldn’t have a more precise or neater

Metre.

Is this, I ask, the Seine?

And yonder sylvan lane,

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