Isthmus be A boxer eminent in fight, Nor fares he foremost in the flight Of Grecian cars to victory, Nor goes with Delian laurels dight, The man thou lov'st, Melpomene! Not him the Capitol shall see, As who hath crush'd the threats and might Of monarchs, march triumphantly; But Fame shall crown him, in his right Of all the Roman lyre that smite The first; so woods of Tivoli Proclaim him, so her waters bright, The man thou lov'st, Melpomene! The sons of queenly Rome count me, Me too, with them whose chants delight,— The poets' kindly company; Now broken is the tooth of spite, But thou, that temperest aright The golden lyre, all, all to thee He owes—life, fame, and fortune's height— The man thou lov'st, Melpomene! ENVOY. Queen, that to mute lips could'st unite The wild swan's dying melody! Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite— The man thou lov'st, Melpomene? 

ENVOY

 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. 

(FROM "THE GARLAND OF RACHEL.")

ENVOY

 BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY. I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves Among the shining salmon-flies; A song for summer-time that grieves I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves. Between grey sea and golden sheaves, Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies, I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves Among the shining salmon-flies. TO C. H. ARKCOLL. Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed By the odour of myrrh on the breeze; In the isles of the East and the West That are sweet with the cinnamon trees Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas; Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete, We are more than content, if you please, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best With the scent of the limes, when the bees Hummed low 'round the doves 

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