"Please, Sir," the Undergraduates said, Turning a little blue,

"We did not know that was the sort Of thing we had to do."

"We thank you much," the Vulture said; "Send up another two."

Two more came up, and then two more,

and more,

And some looked upwards at the roof,
And some down upon the floor,
But none were any wiser than
The pair that went before.

"I weep for you," the Vulture said;

"I deeply sympathize!"

With sobs and tears he gave

D's of the largest size,

them all

While at the Husbandman he winked
One of his streaming eyes.

"I think," observed the Husbandman,
"We're getting on too quick;
Are we not putting down the D's
A little bit too thick?"

The Vulture said with much disgust,
"Their answers make me sick."

"Now, Undergraduates," he cried,
"Our fun is nearly done;
Will anybody else come up?"

But answer came there none;
But this was scarcely odd, because
They'd ploughed them every one!
[267]

A. C. Hilton.

AFTER A. C. SWINBURNE

ACK and Jille

JAC

GILLIAN

I have made me an end of the moods of maidens,

I have loosed me, and leapt from the links of love;

From the kiss that cloys and desire that deadens,

The woes that madden, the words that

move.

In the dim last days of a spent September,
When fruits are fallen, and flies are fain;
Before you forget, and while I remember,
I cry as I shall cry never again.

Went up a hylle

Where the strong fell faints in the lazy levels
Of misty meadows, and streams that stray;
We raised us at eve from our rosy revels,
With the faces aflame for the death of the

day;

With pale lips parted, and sighs that shiver,
Low lids that cling to the last of love:

We left the levels, we left the river,

And turned us and toiled to the air above.

To fetch a paile of water,

By the sad sweet springs that have salved our sorrow,

The fates that haunt us, the grief that

grips

Where we walk not to-day nor shall walk not

to-morrow

The wells of Lethe for wearied lips.

With souls nor shaken with tears nor laughter,
With limp knees loosed as of priests that

pray,

We bowed us and bent to the white well

water,

We dipped and we drank it and bore away.

Jack felle downe

The low light trembled on languid lashes,
The haze of your hair on my mouth was
blown,

Our love flashed fierce from its fading ashes,
As night's dim net on the day was thrown.
What was it meant for, or made for, that
minute,

But that our lives in delight should be
dipt?

Was it yours, or my fault, or fate's, that in it
Our frail feet faltered, our steep steps slipt.

And brake his crowne, and Jille came tumblynge

after.

Our linked hands loosened and lapsed in sunder,

Love from our limbs as a shift was shed,
But paused a moment, to watch with wonder
The pale pained body, the bursten head.
While our sad souls still with regrets are riven,
While the blood burns bright on our bruised
brows,

I have set you free, and I stand forgiven
And now I had better go call my cows.
Anonymous.

ATALANTA IN CAMDEN-TOWN

A

Y, 't was here, on this spot,

In that summer of yore,

Atalanta did not

Vote my presence a bore,

Nor reply to my tenderest talk, "She had heard all that nonsense before."

She'd the brooch I had bought

And the necklace and sash on,
And her heart, as I thought,

Was alive to my passion;

And she'd done up her hair in the style that the Empress had brought into fashion.

I had been to the play

With my pearl of a Peri
But, for all I could say,

She declared she was weary,

That "the place was so crowded and hot, and she

could n't abide that Dundreary."

Then I thought, "'T is for me

That she whines and she whimpers !" And it soothed me to see

Those sensational simpers,

And I said, "This is scrumptious," a phrase I had learned from the Devonshire shrimpers.

And I vowed, "'T will be said
I'm a fortunate fellow,
When the breakfast is spread,

When the topers are mellow,

When the foam of the bird-cake is white and the fierce orange-blossoms are yellow!"

Oh, that languishing yawn!
Oh, those eloquent eyes!

I was drunk with the dawn
Of a splendid surmise—

I was stung by a look, I was slain by a tear, by a tempest of sighs.

And I whispered, "'Tis time!
Is not Love at its deepest?
Shall we squander Life's prime,

While thou waitest and weepest?

Let us settle it, License or Banns?though un

doubtedly Banns are the cheapest."

"Ah, my Hero!" said I,

"Let me be thy Leander!"

But I lost her reply

Something ending with "gander" —

For the omnibus rattled so loud that no mortal

could quite understand her.

[ 271 ]

Lewis Carroll.