nger half so sweet:
The first note of his viol brought
A crowd into the street.

He stepped as young, and bright, and glad
As Angel Gabriel.
And only when we heard him sing
Our eyes forgot Rudel.

And as he sat in Avignon,
With princes at their wine,
In all that lusty company
Was none so fresh and fine.

His kirtle's of the Arras-blue,
His cap of pearls and green;
His golden curls fall tumbling round
The fairest face I've seen.

How Gautier would have liked this from the same poem!--

Hew the timbers of sandal-wood,
And planks of ivory;
Rear up the shining masts of gold,
And let us put to sea.

Sew the sails with a silken thread
That all are silken too;
Sew them with scarlet pomegranates
Upon a sheet of blue.

Rig the ship with a rope of gold
And let us put to sea.
And now, good-bye to good Marseilles,
And hey for Tripoli!

The ballad of the Duke of Gueldres's wedding is very clever:

'O welcome, Mary Harcourt,
Thrice welcome, lady mine;
There's not a knight in all the world
Shall be as true as thine.

'There's venison in the aumbry, Mary,
There's claret in the vat;
Come in, and breakfast in the hall
Where once my mother sat!'

O red, red is the wine that flows,
And sweet the minstrel's play,
But white is Mary Harcourt
Upon her wedding-day.

O many are the wedding guests
That sit on either side;
But pale below her crimson flowers
And homesick is the bride.

Miss Robinson's critical sense is at once too sound and too subtle to
allow her to think that any great Renaissance of Romance will necessarily
follow from the adoption of the ballad-form in poetry; but her work in
this style is very pretty and charming, and The Tower of St. Maur, which
tells of the father who built up his little son in the wall of his castle
in order that the foundations should stand sure, is admirable in its way.
The few touches of archaism in language that she introduces are quite
sufficient for their purpose, and though she fully appreciates the
importance of the Celtic spirit in literature, she does not consider it
necessary to talk of 'blawing' and 'snawing.' As for the garden play,
Our Lady of the Broken Heart, as it is called, the bright, birdlike
snatches of song that break in here and there--as the singing does in
Pippa P