ospitably hast thou entertained,
O Poet, us the bidden to thy board,
Whom in mid-feast, and while our thousand mouths
Are one laudation of the festal cheer,
Thou from thy table dost dismiss, unfilled.
Yet loudlier thee than many a lavish host
We praise, and oftener thy repast half-served
Than many a stintless banquet, prodigally
Through satiate hours prolonged; nor praise less well
Because with tongues thou hast not cloyed, and lips
That mourn the parsimony of affluent souls,
And mix the lamentation with the laud.

LINES TO OUR NEW CENSOR

[Mr. Oscar Wilde, having discovered that England is unworthy
of him, has announced his resolve to become a naturalised
Frenchman.]

And wilt thou, Oscar, from us flee,
And must we, henceforth, wholly sever?
Shall thy laborious _jeux-d'esprit_
Sadden our lives no more for ever?

And all thy future wilt thou link
With that brave land to which thou goest?
Unhappy France! we _used_ to think
She touched, at Sedan, fortune's lowest.

And you're made French as easily
As you might change the clothes you're wearing?
Fancy!--and 'tis so hard to be
A man of sense and modest bearing.

May fortitude beneath this blow
Fail not the gallant Gallic nation!
By past experience, well we know
Her genius for recuperation.

And as for us--to our disgrace,
Your stricture's truth must be conceded:
Would any but a stupid race
Have made the fuss about you _we_ did?

RELUCTANT SUMMER

Reluctant Summer! once, a maid
Full easy of access,
In many a bee-frequented shade
Thou didst thy lover bless.
Divinely unreproved I played,
Then, with each liberal tress--
And art thou grown at last afraid
Of some too close caress?

Or deem'st that if thou shouldst abide
My passion might decay?
Thou leav'st me pining and denied,
Coyly thou say'st me nay.
Ev'n as I woo thee to my side,
Thou, importuned to stay,
Like Orpheus' half-recovered bride
Ebb'st from my arms away.

THE GREAT MISGIVING

"Not ours," say some, "the thought of death to dread;
Asking no heaven, we fear no fabled hell:
Life is a feast, and we have banqueted--
Shall not the worms as well?

"The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,
And void the places where the minstrels stood,
Differs in nought from what hath been before,
And is nor ill nor good."

Ah, but the Apparition--the dumb sign--
The beckoning finger bidding me forego
The fellowship, the converse, and the wi