QUEEN ANNE

ENVOY

FROU-FROU

QUEEN ANNE

 BALLADE OF A PRIMITIVE MAN. TO J. A. FARRER. He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees, An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose,— 'T was the manner of Primitive Man. He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipp'd the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose,— 'T was the manner of Primitive Man. His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke, it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'T was the manner of Primitive Man! ENVOY. MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'T was the manner of Primitive Man! 

TO J. A. FARRER.

ENVOY

MAX

 BALLADE OF SLEEP.   "Of all Gods, Sleep is dearest to the Muses."—Pausanias. The hours are passing slow, I hear their weary tread Clang from the tower, and go Back to their kinsfolk dead. Sleep! death's twin brother dread! Why dost thou scorn me so? The wind's voice overhead Long wakeful here I know, And music from the steep Where waters fall and flow. Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? All sounds that might bestow Rest on the fever'd bed, All slumb'rous sounds and low Are mingled here and wed, And bring no drowsihed. Shy dreams flit to and fro With shadowy hair dispread; With wistful eyes that glow, And silent robes that sweep. Thou wilt not hear me; no? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? What cause hast thou to show Of sacrifice unsped? Of all thy slaves below I most have laboured With service sung and said; Have cull'd such buds as blow, Soft poppies white and red, Where thy still gardens grow, And Lethe's waters weep. Why, then, art thou my foe? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? ENVOY. Prince, ere the dark be shred By golden shafts, ere low And long the shadows creep: Lord of the wand of lead, Soft-footed as the snow, Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? 

ENVOY

 BALLADE OF CLEOPATRA'S 

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