To-day you have critical ears;

You once could be charmed with our salads

Alas! you've been dining with Peers; You trifled and flirted with many,

You've forgotten the when and the how; There was one you liked better than any, Perhaps you've forgotten her now.

But of those you remember most newly,
Of those who delight or enthrall,
None love you a quarter so truly
As some you will find at our Ball.

They tell me you've many who flatter,
Because of your wit and your song:
They tell me and what does it matter? -
You like to be praised by the throng:

They tell me you're shadowed with laurel:
They tell me you're loved by a Blue:

They tell me you're sadly immoral -
Dear Clarence, that cannot be true!

OUR BALL

to me, you are still what I found you, efore you grew clever and tall;

I you'll think of the spell that once bound

you;

nd you'll come won't you come? - to our Ball!

WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED

IMITATION

My love she leans from the window

Afar in a rosy land;

And red as a rose are her blushes,

And white as a rose her hand.

And the roses cluster around her,
And mimic her tender grace;
And nothing but roses can blossom
Wherever she shows her face.

I dwell in a land of winter,

From my love a world apart

But the snow blooms over with roses At the thought of her in my heart.

This German style of poem

Is uncommonly popular now; For the worst of us poets can do it

Since Heine showed us how.

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER

TO HIS COY MISTRESS

HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews;
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart. Fair lady, you deserve this state,

TO HIS COY MISTRESS

Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near,
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity,

Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
Thy long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour,

Than languish in his slow-shapt power. Let us roll all our strength and all