SMALL  was  thy  share  of  all  this  world's  delight,
And  scant  thy  poet's  crown  of  flowers  of  praise;
Yet  ever  catches  quaint  of  quaint  old  days
Thou  sang'st,  and,  singing,  kept  thy  spirit  bright
Even  as  to  lips  the  winds  of  winter  bite

Some  outcast  wanderer  sets  his  flute  and  plays
Till  at  his  feet  blossom  the  icy  ways,
And  from  the  snow-drift's  bitter  wasting  white
He  hears  the  uprising  carol  of  the  lark,

Soaring  from  clover  seas  with  summer  ripe  —

While  freeze  upon  his  cheek  glad,  foolish  tears.
Ah !  let  us  hope  that  somewhere  in  thy  dark,
Herrick's  full  note,  and  Suckling's  pleasant  pipe
Are  sounding  still  their  solace  in  thine  ears.
ELSEWHERE.
HOLIDAY    HOME.
WHEN  the  Autumn  winds  nip  all  the  hill-grasses
brown,

And  sad  the  last  breath  of  the  Summer  in  town,
When  the  waves  have  a  chill,  with  a  spicing  of  salt,
That  warms  the  whole  blood  like  no  mortal-brewed  malt —
Then  I  slip  the  dull  burdens  of  Duty's  employ  —
New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy !

There  the  latch-string  is  out,  there  's  a  hand  at  the  door,
There  are  kindliest  faces  so  kindly  before  —
Ah,  the  song  takes  a  lilt,  and  the  words  trip  with  joy,
For  New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy  !

When  the  Winter  lies  white  on  the  roofs  of  the  town,
A  sound  's  in  my  heart  that  no  storm-wind  can  drown;
Through  the   mist   and   the  rain,  and  the   sleet  and  the

snow,

My  memory  murmurs  a  melody  low,
Like  the  swing  of  a  song  through  the  brain  of  a  boy —
New  London,  New  London,  New  London  ahoy !

49


FORFEITS.
THEY  sent  him  round  the  circle  fair,
To  bow  before  the  prettiest  there.
