Mimick'd the music of her smile.

The glib laugh purled from light her lips
In ripe rains like pomegranate-pips

And rippling founts of œnomel,
And like a rose-bud big with flower,
Or ripe fruit at the garnering hour,
The mirth her cheeks did swell.

"O poet mine, though indiscreet
Your fancy flight to let so free,
Mefears at roosting time 'twill be
A trifle less so fervent fleet,
Against your soul its wings to beat,

And chorus in your poesy.

"O poet mine, tho' volatile,

And full of caprice as can be,

Your wanton thoughts to thus beguile
A cycle sooner than a mile,

From out yourself and me.

If I've nor learnt your lore in vain,
Nor cull'd your sonnets' herbary,

Nor known your soul its balm and bane,

And fused it in my sorcery,

Your poet's pets and perts and pretties—

(And losing them were worst of pities !)

Mefears will ne'er come back again,
They are so scatter'd, mount and main,

A thousand miles and out to sea,
And some are lost in years ago,

And some in years have yet to be ; And some have soar'd beyond all time,— Far out of reason, out of rhyme,

To east and west, above, below,

Beyond eternity.

"And some have flown to a pleach'd pleasaunce

And swing athwart the fountain-falls,

And lose the poet's read romaunce
'Mid maddening maze of madrigals.

They flap and trill, and pipe applause ;
The laughing ladies wave their hands,
And flutter scarves and lace and gauze,
And chase them with their gay
ribànds ;
And ere the sun the garden leaves,
In truth so trite it fain deceives,

They'll follow suit in gallant bands,
And night amid their lady's eaves.

66 And some have sunk to the orchard-close, And peck the pippins round and red,

And feast amid the raspberry rows,

And spoil the queen's pet strawberry-bed.
And now the gard'ner comes that way,
And flings the net, alack-a-day!—

They ne'er have time to swirl away,
And now they're all imprisoned.

"And some by night when sups the king
Beside the comely courtisan
Are spit and turning round the string
(Mefears I set you marvelling)

Each one a savoury ortolan.

"And one has swoop'd to a diamond-pane
To peep at what 'twere sin to see.
My Lady Prue comes nooning there,
And turns the casement t'wards the air

And takes your sonnet then and there,
All lief 'twere in her bosom lain
Or liquid lawns about her knee.—
And ah! she is so fair, so fair,

;

You fain might spend yourself in prayer,
He'd let her wring his neck, I swear,

And teach him for temerity.

"And some the prince's fool has caught

To serve within a fancy pie;

And when the queen the pastry breaks

Nor doubts the tasty morsel nigh, They'll all go forth in shrieks and shakes Amid the comfits, quince, and cakes, And dames in terror like to die.

"And some from off the falcon frames
Have shot sheer up to heaven's height
To Venus' balmy bosom, bright
With snowy lawns and farthingales;
They peck the sparrows nursed therein.
That all to peep and cheep begin
And voice as shrill as nightingales ;-
And Venus laughs, she can but fain,
And yokes them to a crystal bar;
At night amid her doves in star
They'll lead along her rosy car,
And bear her where the banquets are
In Tethys' beautiful domain.

"And some the courtiers catch in cages And teach to sing their ladies' names,

And add fresh fuel to the flames

The flame of love alone assuages ;
And some are ta'en as gifts and gages

To win fresh œilliads from the dames,—

And balm'd upon their bosoms sweet,
With rose and amber for their meat,
And from their lips the plums to eat,
'Tis folly's maddest self that blames,
Or can expect them home for ages.

"And some have flown to heaven above,
'Mid streets of beryls blue and bright,
Beturreted to left and right,

And flutt'ring free with banderolles ;
They turn the young saints' heads with love,
(My poet mine, you are too free!)
They chase them each, below, above,-
Half madden'd by their minstrelsy,—
Thro' garths of crimson gladioles;

And, shimmering soft like damoisels,
The angels swarm in glimmering shoals,
And pin them to their aurioles,

And mimick back their ritournels.

"And one has tipt a golden pipe

Of those the roses wreathe and stripe,

And flaps its wings, and swings and sings,

Awhile below the fingers fly

On rows of keys of ivory,

In mingled runs and quaverings.