V.

RONDEL.

"I LOVE you, and I love you not," she said,

And brought me to a little garden-close; "I will not bid your hope be holely dead," And in my hand she set an opening rose.

It was the emblem of her double mind

*

("I love you, and I love you not," she said), A fair, faint-perfumed blossom, and behind

A small sharp thorn raised up its threatening head.

Beneath the screen of petals overspread

It lurked unseen, unfelt—alas, unsought; "I love you, and I love you not," she said,

And sweet "I love you" hid sharp "love you not."

* The expression is suggested by the exquisite song in Morris's Jason, bk. iv., beginning :

"I know a little garden-close,

Set thick with lily and red rose."

But now my poor frail flower is crushed and torn, Its blush is faded, and its perfume fled;

The thorn remains-long since I found the thorn; "I love you,"-ah! "I love you not," she said.

1874.

VI.

"CONFESSIO AMANTIS." *

"CONFESSIO AMANTIS?" Oh,

You need not open that; I know
Your sober wisdom spurns the storied fancies
Of long ago.

So put it back upon the shelf,

And see this curious piece of delf
I got for a mere song the other morning.
-Well, please yourself.

Ah! have the roses caught your eye?
And must you hear the reason why
I put these faded flowers between the pages

So carefully by?

* The title of the poet Gower's English masterpiece, always quaint, and often beautiful, but hitherto painfully neglected and scandalously edited.

The metre of this poem and of "Helicè" is adapted (by the excision of one foot in the first, second, and fourth lines) from one invented by Mr. Grant Allen, the author of many poems (unfortunately not yet published) of remarkable beauty.

You know my foolish childish bent,

You know these poor, dead things are meant
To echo to my thought their simple language
Of hue and sent.

But what I meant them to express,

That is my secret, friend-unlessWell, in three times I think you'll hardly guess it; Thrice you shall guess.

"Emblems of one dear maid?" Oh no!
Surely you wrong her fairness so.

How should this withered growth of leaf and blossom
Her beauty show?

Oh no! guess on.

"Are these the sign

Of my dead love?"-No love of mine: Although I grant your metaphoric instinct

Has grown more fine.

My love no August drought coud kill,
Nor frosts of February chill:

Truly I know it is not dead, nor faded,
But blossoms still.

Deep in my heart its roots are spread,

With my life-blood its life is fed,

Fanned with the breath I breathe, and if this wither I too am dead.

You aim but widely at the best :

Guess once again. Ah! you have guessed, And to your curious wit my poor sad secret Lies manifest.

She gave me those one night of June, And these she gave that last sweet noon, Tokens of hope restored and love half-willing To follow soon.

Ah! friend, what further need be said?
The hope's recalled, the love is fled;
The flowers remain, fit emblems of both faded,
Both crushed, both dead-

Embalmed within the sweet sad rime

Writ by that lover of old time

Whose lesser star still sparkled through the sunlight

Of Chaucer's prime.