IV.

Here shall my tongue in other wise be soured Than fretful men's in parched and palsied days; And, by the mid-May's dusky leaves embowered, Forget the fruitful blame, the scanty praise. No sweets to them who sweet themselves were born, Whose natures ooze with lucent saccharine; Who, with sad repetition soothly cloyed, The lemon-tinted morn Enjoy, and find acetic twilight fine: Wake I, or sleep? The pickle-jar is void.

GWENDOLINE.

(E. B. BROWNING)

'Twas not the brown of chestnut boughs That shadowed her so finely; It was the hair that swept her brows And framed her face divinely; Her tawny hair, her purple eyes, The spirit was ensphered in, That took you with such swift surprise, Provided you had peered in.

Her velvet foot amid the moss And on the daisies patted, As, querulous with sense of loss, It tore the herbage matted: 'And come he early, come he late,' She saith, 'it will undo me; The sharp fore-speeded shaft of fate Already quivers through me.

'When I beheld his red-roan steed, I knew what aim impelled it; And that dim scarf of silver brede, I guessed for whom he held it; I recked not, while he flaunted by, Of Love's relentless vi'lence, Yet o'er me crashed the summer sky, In thunders of blue silence.

'His hoof-prints crumbled down the vale, But left behind their lava; What should have been my woman's mail, Grew jellied as guava: I looked him proud, but 'neath my pride I felt a boneless tremor; He was the Beër, I descried, And I was but the Seemer!

'Ah, how to be what then I seemed, And bid him seem that is so! We always tangle threads we dreamed, And contravene our bliss so. I see the red-roan steed again! He looks, as something sought he: Why, hoity toity!--_he_ is fain, So _I_'ll be cold and haughty!'

ANGELO ORDERS HIS DINNER.

(R. BROWNING)

I, Angelo, obese, black-garmented, Respectable, much in demand, well fed With mine own larder's dainties,--where, indeed, Such cakes of myrrh or fine alyssum seed, Thin as a mallow-leaf, embrowned o' the top, Which, cracking, lets the ropy, trickling drop Of sweetness touch your tongue, or potted nests Which my recondite recipe invests With cold conglomerate tidbits--ah, the bill! (You say,) but given it were mine to fill My chests, the case so put were yours, we'll say, (This counter, here, your post, as mine to-day,) And you've an eye to luxuries, what harm In smoothing down your palate with the charm Yourself concocted? There we issue take; And see! as thus across the rim I break This puffy paunch of glazed embroidered cake, So breaks, through use, the lust of watering chaps And craveth plainness: do I so? Perhaps; But that's my secret. Find me such a man As Lippo yonder, built upon the plan Of heavy storage, double-navelled, fat From his own giblets' oil, an Ararat Uplift o'er water, sucking rosy draughts From Noah's vineyard,--... crisp, enticing wafts Yon kitchen now emits, which to your sense Somewhat abate the fear of old events, Qualms to the stomach,--I, you see, am slow Unnecessary duties to forgo,-- You understand? A venison haunch, _haut goût_, Ducks that in Cimbrian olives mildly stew, And sprigs of anise, might one's teeth provoke To taste, and so we wear the complex yoke Just as it suits,--my liking, I confess, More to receive, and to partake no less, Still more obese, while through thick adipose Sensation shoots, from testing tongue to toes Far-off, dim-conscious, at the body's verge, Where the froth-whispers of its waves emerge On the untasting sand. Stay, now! a seat Is bare: I, Angelo, will sit and eat.

THE SHRIMP-GATHERERS.

(JEAN INGELOW)

Scarlet spaces of sand and ocean, Gulls that circle and winds that blow; Baskets and boats and men in motion, Sailing and scattering to and fro.

Girls are waiting, their wimples adorning With crimson sprinkles the broad grey flood; And down the beach the blush of the morning Shines reflected from moisture and mud.

Broad from the yard the sails hang limpy; Lightly the steersman whistles a lay; Pull with a will, for the nets are shrimpy, Pull with a whistle, our hearts are gay!

Tuppence a quart; there are more than fifty! Coffee is certain, and beer galore: Coats are corduroy, and minds are thrifty, Won't we go it on sea and shore!

See, behind, how the hills are freckled With low white huts, where the lasses bide! See, before, how the sea is speckled With sloops and schooners that wait the tide!

Yarmouth fishers may rail and roister, Tyne-side boys may shout, 'Give way!' Let them dredge for the lobster and oyster, Pink and sweet are our shrimps to-day!

Shrimps and the delicate periwinkle, Such are the sea-fruits lasses love: Ho! to your nets till the blue stars twinkle, And the shutterless cottages gleam above!

CIMABUELLA.

(D. G. ROSSETTI)