When Silvia's eyes assail,
Fa la!
When Silvia's eyes assail,
No feint the arts of war can show,
No counterstroke avail;
Naught skills but arms away to throw,
And kneel before that lovely foe,
When Silvia's eyes assail!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Fa la!
Yet is all truce in vain,
Since she that spares doth still pursue
To vanquish once again;
And naught remains for man to do
But fight once more, to yield anew,
And so all truce is vain!
A GARDEN SONG.
(To W. E. H.)
Here, in this sequestered close
Bloom the hyacinth and rose;
Here beside the modest stock
Flaunts the flaring hollyhock;
Here, without a pang, one sees
Ranks, conditions, and degrees.
All the seasons run their race
In this quiet resting place;
Peach, and apricot, and fig
Here will ripen, and grow big;
Here is store and overplus,—
More had not Alcinoüs!
Here, in alleys cool and green,
Far ahead the thrush is seen;
Here along the southern wall
Keeps the bee his festival;
All is quiet else—afar
Sounds of toil and turmoil are.
Here be shadows large and long;
Here be spaces meet for song;
Grant, O garden-god, that I,
Now that none profane is nigh,—
Now that mood and moment please,
Find the fair Pierides!
A CHAPTER OF FROISSART.
(GRANDPAPA LOQUITUR.)