dull care,
Into the moonlight fair,
Our boat shall speed;
Songs floating on the air,
Haste we with music rare,
Where Love would lead.

Life's but a transient dream;
All things that are or seem,
Breathe but a day.
Come, eyes that on me beam,
Leave what ye sorrow deem,
While yet ye may.

_Fortnight_, 1886.

IN HOLLAND BROWN

RONDEAU

SANBORN GOVE TENNEY '86

In holland brown she stands to greet
Me as I come adown the street,
The sunlight falling on her hair
Leaves warm caresses gently there--
A picture with true grace replete!

The roses twining round her feet
Breathe gentle fragrance rare and sweet,
She sings a merry rustic air--
In holland brown.

O years that fly so swift and fleet!
O storms that 'gainst her window beat!
Keep her from harm and tears and care!
That future years may find her where
In days of June we used to meet,
In holland brown.

_Fortnight_, 1886.

HYLAS

SANBORN GOVE TENNEY '86

Many years have left their shadows on the pathless flow of time;
Many bards have with soft music sung their lays of ancient rhyme,
Since the day when rosy Hylas plunged into Scamander's wave,
Since the am'rous Naiads bore him where no human arm could save.

On the waves swift Argo rested; scarce a ripple stirred the sea,
While across the Dardan meadows sighed the breezes soft and free;
Then the sun, in golden splendor, sank into a sea of flame,
Darkness o'er the blue hills rested; yet no fair young Hylas came.

For the water nymphs had loved him, when they saw his beauty rare,
And with yielding lips caressing, they entwined him with their hair,
Till they bound him, still entreating, with this soft and silken chain,
Till they drew him 'neath the waters, whence he ne'er should come again.

Then the moon, a crescent jewel, edged the clouds with silver light,
While they sped like shallops sailing, swift-winged messengers of Night.
And the stream, dark-hued and somber, sighed in surges on the shore,
Gently sighed among its rushes, "Hylas! Hylas!" o'er and o'er.

Yet no voice replied in answer, tho' the sighing louder grew,
Tho' with sorrow bowed the flowers and their tears were drops of dew;
No sweet echo breaks the silence, tho' the heart may hope and yearn,
O'er the stream a realm of quiet, on the shore the empty urn.

_Fortnight_, 1886.

THE 'CELLO

SAMUEL ABBOTT