The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd, But her delight is all in archery, And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she More than her hounds that follow on the flight; The Goddess draws a golden bow of might And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay. She tosses loose her locks upon the night, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. ENVOY. Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight: Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray There is the mystic home of our delight, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. 

AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE.

ENVOY

 BALLADE OF THE CRICKET. TO T. W. LANG. The burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou score a "five" and there a "four," And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, When lo, the Umpire gives thee "leg before,"— "This is the end of every man's desire!"  The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is "collared," swift or slower, When "bailers" break not in their wonted way, And "Yorkers" come not off as here-to-fore, When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad ton-door,— "This is the end of every man's desire! The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour, And running still thou stumblest, or the ray Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer," And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,— "This is the end of every man's desire!"  ENVOY. Alas, yet liefer on Life's hither shore Would I be some poor Player on scant hire, Than King among the old, who play no more,— "This is the end of every man's desire!" 

TO T. W. LANG

THORNTON

ENVOY

 BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN'S PARADISE. Here is a Heaven, or here, or there,— A Heaven there is, for me and you, Where bargains meet for purses spare, Like ours, are not so far and few. Thuanus' bees go humming through The learned groves, 'neath rainless skies, O'er volumes old and volumes new, Within that Book-man's Paradise!  

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