Before the blast are driven the flying clouds(And I should like to blow a cloud as well) The vapours wrap the mountain-tops in shrouds(I left my mild cheroots at the hotel.) Dotting the glassy surface of the stream, (Oh, here's a cigarette—my mind's at ease,)

The boats move silently as in a dream— (Confound it! where on earth are my fusees?)

Methinks in such a Paradise as this,

(Thank goodness, there's a clodhopper in sight.) To live were ecstasy, to die were bliss.

(Could you oblige me, Monsieur, with a light?) I could live pure beneath so pure a sky— (The rain's completely spoilt my Sunday coat,) And sink into the tomb without a sigh

(There's the bell ringing for the table d'hôte.)

No. 4. VENICE.

PEED, gondolier, speed, o'er the

lonely lagoon,

To the distant piazetta

Where dwells my Minetta,

Lest envious Aurora surprise us too

soon.

Sing, gondolier, sing, with a heart.

full as mine

Though thy larynx be wheezy

And singing's not easy

Whilst guiding a vessel so tub-like as thine.

Cease, gondolier, cease; 'twas an exquisite air

But we've reach'd the Rialto,

So hand me that paletôt ;

And tell me, my gondolier, what is thy fare?

THE SEASONS.

THE smiling Spring is too light a thing—

Too much of a child for me.

No trace in her face of the ripen'd grace

That a lover would love to see.

Hers are the showers-but half the flowers
Hang back for her sister's call.

Amongst the seasons, for divers reasons,
The Spring is the worst of all.

I dread the Summer, the next new-comer,
Because of her changeful forms:

She merits my praise for her cloudless days,
But my wrath for her fearful storms.

There are flames in her love from the fires above,
And her kisses like lava fall.

Amongst the seasons, for various reasons,

The Summer is worst of all.

The Autumn drear glides into a year
With the moan of an injured ghost.
Then shiver and fall the brown leaves all,
And the woods are in rags almost.

She comes and flings on blossoming things
A shadow of shroud and pall.

Amongst the seasons, for several reasons,
The Autumn is worst of all.

The Winter is good, be it understood,
For scarcely a single thing:

Although it is prime at the Christmas time
To revel and dance and sing.

It is full of such ills as tradesmen's bills.

And its pleasures are scant and small. Amongst the seasons, for many good reasons, The Winter is worst of all.

BROKEN VOWS.

ROMISES are lightly spoken ;

Vows on which we blindly build (Utter'd only to be broken)

Go for ever unfulfill'd.

Oft betray'd, but still believing-
Duped again and yet again-
All our hoping, all our grieving
Warns us, but it warns in vain.