Whose petals were strewn by November’s chill blast,
Or beaten to earth by December’s dread showers.
Where are they, the bright ones who bloomed and looked brave,
Hardy annuals, year after year on these benches?
Some Villon should “wake” them with lachrymose stave,
The mild modern Muse from the tragical blenches.
“A Ballad of M.P.’s Unseated,” Good lack!
Master Francois would make it pathetic and pretty;
But he, too, is fled and will hardly come back,
Though tempted by Swinburne, though coaxed by Rossetti.