The Villanelle, Virelai, and Virelai Nouveau.

J'ay perdu ma tourterelle; Est-ce-point elle que i'oy?[10] Je veux aller après elle. Tu regrettes ta femelle; Hélas! aussy fay-je moy: J'ay perdu ma tourterelle. Si ton amour est fidèle, Aussy est ferme ma foy; Je veux aller après elle. Ta plainte se renouvelle? Toujours plaindre je me doy: J'ay perdu ma tourterelle. En ne voyant plus la belle Plus rien de beau je ne voy: Je veux aller après elle. Mort, que tant de fois j'appelle Prens ce qui se donne à toy: J'ai perdu ma tourterelle, Je veux aller après elle.

There are roses white, there are roses red, Shyly rosy, tenderly white;- Which shall I choose to wreathe my head? Which shall I cull from the garden-bed To greet my love on this very night? There are roses white, there are roses red. The red should say what I would have said; Ah! how they blush in the evening light! Which shall I choose to wreathe my head? The white are pale as the snow new-spread, Pure as young eyes and half as bright; There are roses white, there are roses red. Roses white, from the heaven dew-fed, Roses red for a passion's plight; Which shall I choose to wreathe my head? Summer twilight is almost fled, Say, dear love! have I chosen right? There are roses white, there are roses red, All twined together to wreathe my head.

O Halcyon hours of happy holiday, When frets of function and of fashion flee, (Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway). Ye whisper 'welcome' to our wandering way, And give a gracious greeting to our glee, O halcyon hours of happy holiday! Or pacing prairies in pursuit of prey, Or sailing silent on a southern sea, (Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway), Or gliding giddy down some glacier gray, Or joining in a German jubilee, O halcyon hours of happy holiday! We breathe such buoyant bliss that we betray Our sportive spirits strangely-sans souci Sweet is the sunshine, soft the summer's sway, And dear the dreaming of these days distraits We find we ye, so fainéants and free, O halcyon hours of happy holiday!

Seek not, O maid, to know (Alas! unblest the trying!) When thou and I must go. No lore of stars can show. What shall be, vainly prying, Seek not, O maid, to know. Will Jove long years bestow?- Or is't with this one dying, That thou and I must go; Now,-when the great winds blow And waves the reef are plying?... Seek not, O maid, to know. Rather let clear wine flow, On no vain hope relying; When thou and I must go Lies dark; then be it so. Now,—now, churl Time is flying; Seek not, O maid, to know When thou and I must go.

When I saw you last, Rose, You were only so high;- How fast the time goes! Like a bud ere it blows, You just peeped at the sky, When I saw you last, Rose! Now your petals unclose, Now your May-time is nigh;- How fast the time goes! And a life,-how it grows! You were scarcely so shy, When I saw you last, Rose! In your bosom it shows There's a guest on the sly; How fast the time goes! Is it Cupid? Who knows! Yet you used not to sigh, When I saw you last, Rose;- How fast the time goes!

O singer of the field and fold, Theocritus! Pan's pipe was thine,— Thine was the happier Age of Gold. For thee the scent of new-turned mould, The bee-hives, and the murmuring pine, O singer of the field and fold! Thou sang'st the simple feasts of old,— The beechen bowl made glad with wine ... Thine was the happier Age of Gold! Thou bad'st the rustic loves be told,— Thou bad'st the tuneful reeds combine, O singer of the field and fold! And round thee, ever laughing, rolled The blithe and blue Sicilian brine ... Thine was the happier Age of Gold. Alas for us! our songs are cold; Our northern suns too sadly shine:— O singer of the field and fold, Thine was the happier Age of Gold.

"Ah me, but it might have been! Was there ever so dismal a fate?"— Quoth the little blue mandarin. "Such a maid as was never seen! She passed, though I cried to her 'Wait,'— Ah me, but it might have been! "I cried, 'O my Flower, my Queen, Be mine!' 'Twas precipitate,"— Quoth the little blue mandarin,— "But then ... she was just sixteen,— Long-eyed,—as a lily straight,— Ah me, but it might have been! "As it was, from her palankeen, She laughed—'you're a week too late!'" (Quoth the little blue mandarin.) "That is why, in a mist of spleen, I mourn on this Nankin Plate. Ah me, but it might have been!" Quoth the little blue mandarin.

Wouldst thou not be content to die When low-hung fruit is hardly clinging And golden autumn passes by? Beneath this delicate rose-gray sky, While sunset bells are faintly ringing, Wouldst thou not be content to die? For wintry webs of mist on high Out of the muffled earth are springing, And golden Autumn passes by. O now when pleasures fade and fly, And Hope her southward flight is winging, Wouldst thou not be content to die? Lest Winter come, with wailing cry His cruel icy bondage bringing, When golden Autumn hath passed by; And thou with many a tear and sigh, While life her wasted hands is wringing, Shall pray in vain for leave to die When golden Autumn hath passed by.

Little mistress mine, good-bye! I have been your sparrow true; Dig my grave, for I must die. Waste no tear and heave no sigh, Life should still be blithe for you, Little mistress mine, good-bye! In your garden let me lie; Underneath the pointed yew Dig my grave, for I must die. We have loved the quiet sky With its tender arch of blue; Little mistress mine, good-bye! That I still may feel you nigh, In your virgin bosom, too, Dig my grave, for I must die. Let our garden-friends that fly Be the mourners, fit and few. Little mistress mine, good-bye! Dig my grave, for I must die.

Where's the use of sighing? Sorrow as you may, Time is always flying- Flying!-and defying Men to say him nay ... Where's the use of sighing? Look! To-day is dying After yesterday. Time is always flying. Flying—and when crying Cannot make him stay, Where's the use of sighing? Men with by-and-bying, Fritter life away. Time is always flying, Flying!—O, from prying Cease, and go to play. Where's the use of sighing, "Time is always flying?"

A dainty thing's the Villanelle. Sly, musical, a jewel in rhyme, It serves its purpose passing well. A double-clappered silver bell That must be made to clink in chime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle; And if you wish to flute a spell, Or ask a meeting 'neath the lime, It serves its purpose passing well. You must not ask of it the swell Of organs grandiose and sublime— A dainty thing's the Villanelle; And, filled with sweetness, as a shell Is filled with sound, and launched in time, It serves its purpose passing well. Still fair to see and good to smell As in the quaintness of its prime, A dainty thing's the Villanelle, It serves its purpose passing well.

In the clatter of the train Is a promise brisk and bright. I shall see my love again! I am tired and fagged and fain; But I feel a still delight In the clatter of the train, Hurry-hurrying on amain Through the moonshine thin and white— I shall see my love again! Many noisy miles remain; But a sympathetic sprite In the clatter of the train Hammers cheerful:-that the strain Once concluded and the fight, I shall see my love again. Yes, the overword is plain,— If it's trivial, if it's trite— In the clatter of the train: "I shall see my love again."

Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the singer ceased to sing? Hath the Master lost his lute? Many a pipe and scrannel flute On the breeze their discords fling; Villanelle, why art thou mute? Sound of tumult or dispute, Noise of war the echoes bring; Hath the Master lost his lute? Once he sang of bud and shoot In the season of the Spring; Villanelle, why art thou mute? Fading leaf and falling fruit Say, "The year is on the wing, Hath the Master lost his lute?" Ere the axe lies at the root, Ere the winter comes as king, Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the Master lost his lute!

Child of the muses and the moon, O nightingale, return and sing, Thy song is over all too soon. Let not night's quire yield place to noon, To this red breast thy tawny wing, Child of the muses and the moon. Sing us once more the same sad tune Pandion heard when he was king, Thy song is over all too soon. Night after night thro' leafy June The stars were hush'd and listening, Child of the muses and the moon. Now new moons grow to plenilune And wane, but no new music bring; Thy song is over all too soon. Ah, thou art weary! well, sleep on, Sleep till the sun brings back the spring. Thy song is over all too soon, Child of the muses and the moon.

Beautiful, distracting Hetty, This was how it came to be As we strolled upon the jetty. I had danced three times with Netty, She had flirted with Dobree, Beautiful, distracting Hetty. I was humming Donizetti, Hurt was I, and angry she, As we strolled upon the jetty. As she levelled her Negretti With provoking nicety, Beautiful, distracting Hetty, Suddenly she flashed a pretty, Half-defiant glance at me, As we strolled upon the jetty. And our quarrel seemed so petty By the grandeur of the sea! Beautiful, distracting Hetty, As we strolled upon the jetty.

Life, thou art vaguely strangely sweet, Thy gladness fills our throbbing veins, But Death comes on with footsteps fleet. With rapture men each morning greet, And spite of losses, cares and pains. Life, thou art vaguely strangely sweet. We, while with health our pulses beat, Heed not the falling hour glass grains, But Death comes in with footsteps fleet. Our lips may say "Life is a cheat," But 'tis of Death our heart complains; Life, thou art vaguely strangely sweet. For one hour more do men entreat, As life within them quickly wanes, But Death comes on with footsteps fleet. Many we miss, but him we meet, He is a guest whom nought detains; Life, thou art vaguely strangely sweet, But Death comes on with footsteps fleet.

The air is white with snow-flakes clinging; Between the gusts that come and go Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. Methinks I see the primrose springing On many a bank and hedge, although The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. Surely the hands of spring are flinging Woodscents to all the winds that blow. Methinks I hear the woodlark singing; Methinks I see the swallow winging Across the woodlands sad with snow; The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. Was that the cuckoo's wood-chime swinging? Was that the linnet fluting low? Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. Or can it be the breeze is bringing The breath of violets?—Ah no! The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. It is my lady's voice that's stringing Its beads of gold to song; and so Methinks I hear the woodlark singing. The violets I see upspringing Are in my lady's eyes, I trow; The air is white with snow-flakes clinging. Dear, when thy tender tones are ringing, Even whilst amid the winter's woe The air is white with snow-flakes clinging, Methinks I hear the woodlark singing.

Just to please my Bonnie Belle With her winsome eyes of blue, Lo, I sing a villanelle. List the merry music swell! Haste, ye rhymes, in measure true, Just to please my Bonnie Belle. Have a care to foot it well, Tripping like a fairy crew, Lo, I sing a villanelle. Come from where the Pixies dwell, Dance with sandals dipped in dew, Just to please my Bonnie Belle. In her ear, the tiny shell Let my peerless passion sue; Lo, I sing a villanelle. Will she listen? Who can tell? Does she love me? Would I knew! Just to please my Bonnie Belle Lo, I sing a villanelle.

All worldly dreams I would resign, Nor ever long for hidden lore, If some true maiden's love were mine. If but two eyes of blue divine Could meet my glance forevermore, All worldly dreams I would resign. The clouds would show a silver line And rainbow tints would hue them o'er, If some true maiden's love were mine. A jasmine tree should droop and twine And peep within our cottage door, All worldly dreams I would resign. Our gems should be the dewdrop's shine, Our music float from larks that soar, If some true maiden's love were mine. Where is she now? She gives no sign, That loyal heart, leal to the core! All worldly dreams I would resign If some true maiden's love were mine.

When the brow of June is crowned by the rose And the air is fain and faint with her breath, Then the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes;— The Earth hath rest and forgetteth her woes As she watcheth the cradle of Love and Death, When the brow of June is crowned by the rose. O Love and Death who are counted for foes, She sees you twins of one mind and faith— The Earth at rest from her long birth-throes. You are twins to the mother who sees and knows; (Let them strive and thrive together) she saith— When the brow of June is crowned by the rose. They strive, and Love his brother outgrows, But for strength and beauty he travaileth On the Earth at rest from her long birth-throes. And still when his passionate heart o'erflows, Death winds about him a bridal wreath— As the brow of June is crowned by the rose! So the bands of death true lovers enclose, For Love and Death are as Sword and Sheath When the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes. They are Sword and Sheath, they are Life and its Shows Which lovers have grace to see beneath, When the brow of June is crowned by the rose And the Earth hath rest from her long birth-throes.

O Summer-time so passing sweet, But heavy with the breath of flowers, But languid with the fervent heat. They chide amiss who call thee fleet,— Thee, with thy weight of daylight hours, O Summer-time so passing sweet! Young Summer thou art too replete, Too rich in choice of joys and powers, But languid with the fervent heat. Adieu! my face is set to meet Bleak Winter, with his pallid showers, O Summer-time so passing sweet! Old winter steps with swifter feet, He lingers not in wayside bowers, He is not languid with the heat; His rounded day, a pearl complete, Gleams on the unknown night that lowers; O Summer-time so passing sweet, But languid with the fervent heat!

In every sound, I think I hear her feet— And still I wend my altered way alone, And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet." I watch the shadows in the crowded street— Each passing face I follow one by one— In every sound I think I hear her feet. And months go by-bleak March and May-day heat— Harvest is over—winter well-nigh done— And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet." Among the city square when flowers are sweet, With every breath a sound of her seems blown— In every sound I think I hear her feet. Belfry and clock the unending hours repeat From twelve to twelve—and still she comes in none— And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet." Oh, long delayed to-morrow!—hearts that beat Measure the length of every minute gone— In every sound I think I hear her feet. Ever the suns rise tardily or fleet, And light the letters on a churchyard stone,— And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet." And still from out her unknown far retreat She haunts me with her tender undertone— In every sound I think I hear her feet, And still I say, "To-morrow we shall meet."

The daffodils are on the lea— Come out, sweetheart, and bless the sun! The birds are glad, and so are we. This morn a throstle piped to me, "'Tis time that mates were wooed and won— The daffodils are on the lea." Come out, sweetheart, their gold to see, And building of the nests begun— The birds are glad, and so are we. You said,—bethink you!—"It shall be When, yellow smocked, and winter done, The daffodils are on the lea." Yet, an' you will, to change be free! How sigh you?—"Changes need we none— The birds are glad—and so are we?" Come out, sweetheart! the signs agree, The marriage tokens March has spun— The daffodils are on the lea; The birds are glad—and so are we!

Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore, Sweet Xanthus and Simois both are mute, Thus have the gods ordained forevermore! Springs the rank weed where bloomed the rose before, Unplucked on Ida hangs the purple fruit, Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. When heavenly walls towered proud and high of yore, Unharmed now strays abroad the savage brute, Thus have the gods ordained forevermore! And they, the wronged, that wasting sorrow bore, Alas! their tree hath withered to the root, Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. In Lacedæmon, loved of heroes hoar, No trumpet sounds, but piping shepherd's flute, Thus have the gods ordained forevermore! And thou, the cause, through Aphrodites lore, Unblamed, art praised on poet's lyre and lute— Man's very voice is stilled on Troas' shore. Thus have the gods ordained forevermore!

O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned, Effulgent with the Sun-god's gold, Thou bring'st the joyous season round! While yet the earth is blanched and browned, Thou dost thy amber leaves unfold, O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned. We see thee by yon mossy mound, Wave from thy stalks each pennon bold,— Thou bring'st the joyous season round! Fair child of April, promise-crowned, We longed for thee when winds were cold, O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned. Again we hear the merry sound Of sweet birds singing love-songs old,— Thou bring'st the joyous season round! Again we feel our hearts rebound With pleasures by thy birth foretold,— O daffodil, flower saffron-gowned, Thou bring'st the joyous season round!

Spring knocks at winter's frosty door: In boughs by wild March breezes swayed The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. The brooks have burst their fetters hoar, And greet with noisy glee the glade; Spring knocks at winter's frosty door. The swallow soon will northward soar, The rush uplift its gleaming blade, The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. Soon sunny skies their gold will pour O'er meads that breezy maples shade; Spring knocks at winter's frosty door. Along the reedy river's shore, Fleet fauns will frolic unafraid, The bonnie bluebirds sing once more. And Love, the Love we lost of yore, Will come to twine the myrtle braid; Spring knocks at winter's frosty door, The bonnie bluebirds sing once more.

O, had I but a fairy yacht, I know quite well what I would do— I soon would sail away with Dot! I'd quickly weave a cunning plot, Had I but fairies for my crew— O, had I but a fairy yacht! I'd soon be off just like a shot, Far, far across the ocean blue; I soon would sail away with Dot! What happiness would be my lot, With nought to do all day but woo— O, had I but a fairy yacht. To some sweet unfrequented spot— If I but thought that hearts were true— I soon would sail away with Dot. I'd sail away, not minding what, My friends approve, or foes pooh-pooh— O, had I but a fairy yacht! For name or fame care not a jot, I'd leave behind no trace or clue— I soon would sail away with Dot! Forgetting all, by all forgot, I'd live and love the whole day through— O, had I but a fairy yacht! In distant lands I'd build a cot, And live alone with I know who— I soon would sail away with Dot! I'd start at once—O, would I not? If I were only twenty-two— O, had I but a fairy yacht, I soon would sail away with Dot.

Across the world I speak to thee; Where'er thou art (I know not where), Send thou a messenger to me! I here remain, who would be free, To seek thee out through foul or fair, Across the world I speak to thee. Whether beneath the tropic tree, The cooling night wind fans thy hair,— Send thou a messenger to me! Whether upon the rushing sea, A foamy track thy keel doth wear,- Across the world I speak to thee. Whether in yonder star thou be, A spirit loosed in purple air,— Send thou a messenger to me! Hath Heaven not left thee memory Of what was well in mortal's share? Across the world I speak to thee; Send thou a messenger to me!

Come near, O sun—O south wind, blow, And be the winter's captives freed; Where are the springs of long ago? Drive under ground the lingering snow, And up the greensward legions lead; Come near, O sun—O south wind, blow! Are these the skies we used to know, The budding wood, the fresh-blown mead? Where are the springs of long ago? The breathing furrow will we sow, And patient wait the patient seed; Come near, O sun—O south wind, blow! The grain of vanished years will grow, But not the vanished years, indeed! Where are the springs of long ago? With sodden leafage, lying low, They for remembrance faintly plead! Come near, O sun—O south wind, blow! Where are the springs of long ago?

O jewel of the deep blue night! Too soon, to-day, the moon arose, I pray thee, lend thy lovely light. Than any other star more bright An hundred-fold, thy beauty glows, O jewel of the deep blue night. Too soon Selene gained the height, And now no more her glory shows; I pray thee, lend thy lovely light. Anon our revel of delight Towards the shepherd's dwelling goes, O jewel of the deep blue night! And I must lead the dance aright, Yea—even I—for me they chose: I pray thee, lend thy lovely light. No thief am I, nor evil wight, Nor numbered with the traveller's foes, O jewel of the deep blue night! None would I spoil, nor e'en affright, Mine are the Lover's joys and woes; I pray thee, lend thy lovely light. For good it is, in all men's sight (Thou knowest well) to favour those, O jewel of the deep blue night! Thy golden lamp hath turned to white The silver of the olive-close; O jewel of the deep blue night! I pray thee, lend thy lovely light.

"I did not dream that Love would stay. I deemed him but a passing guest, Yet here he lingers many a day. I said young Love will flee with May And leave forlorn the hearth he blest," I did not dream that Love would stay. My envious neighbour mocks me, "Nay, Love lies not long in any nest." Yet here he lingers many a day. And though I did his will alway, And gave him even of my best, I did not dream that Love would stay. I have no skill to bid him stay, Of tripping tongue or cunning jest, Yet here he lingers many a day. Beneath his ivory feet I lay Pale plumage of the ringdove's breast, I did not dream that Love would stay. Will Love be flown? I ofttimes say, Home turning for the noonday rest, Yet here he lingers many a day. His gold curls gleam, his lips are gay, His eyes through tears smile loveliest; I did not dream that Love would stay. He sometimes sighs, when far away The low red sun makes fair the west, Yet here he lingers many a day. Thrice blest of all men am I! yea, Although of all unworthiest; I did not dream that Love would stay, Yet here he lingers many a day.

Come! to the woods, love, let us go! Let us go pluck the purple flowers, And rest where rosy blossoms blow. 'Twixt glade and shade the sun shall throw A halo round the laughing hours;— Come! to the woods, love, let us go! There are dim nooks the Dryads know, And we can hide in hawthorn-bowers, And rest where rosy blossoms blow. Shall not the fairies passing strow On us the dainty petal-showers? Come! to the woods, love, let us go. And we will roam by rills that flow 'Neath skies from which no tempest lowers; We'll rest where rosy blossoms blow. Come, heart! Come, sweetheart, even so Life's holiest rapture shall be ours;— Come! to the woods, love, let us go, And rest where rosy blossoms blow.

O Singer of Persephone! In the dim meadows desolate, Dost thou remember Sicily? Still through the ivy flits the bee Where Amaryllis lies in state; O Singer of Persephone! Simætha calls on Hecate, And hears the wild dogs at the gate; Dost thou remember Sicily? Still by the light and laughing sea Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate; O Singer of Persephone! And still in boyish rivalry Young Daphnis challenges his mate; Dost thou remember Sicily? Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee; For thee the jocund shepherds wait; O Singer of Persephone! Dost thou remember Sicily?

As I sat sorrowing, Love came and bade me sing A joyous song and meet, For see (said he) each thing Is merry for the Spring, And every bird doth greet The break of blossoming, That all the woodlands ring Unto the young hours' feet. Wherefore put off defeat And rouse thee to repeat The chimes of merles that go, With flutings shrill and sweet, In every green retreat, The tune of streams that flow And mark the fair hours' beat, With running ripples fleet And breezes soft and low. For who should have, I trow, Such joyance in the glow And gladness of the May,— In all sweet bells that blow, In death of winter's woe And birth of Springtide gay, When in woodwalk and row Hand-linked the lovers go,— As he to whom alway God giveth day by day To set to roundelay Life's sad and sunny hours,— To weave into a lay Life's golden years and grey, Its sweet and bitter flowers,— To sweep with hands that stray In many a devious way Its harp of sun and showers? Nor in this life of ours, Whereon the sky oft lowers, Is any lovelier thing Than in the wild wood bowers The cloud of green that towers, The blithe birds welcoming The vivid vernal hours Among the painted flowers And all the pomp of Spring. True, life is on the wing, And all the birds that sing, And all the flowers that be Amid the glow and ring, The pomp and glittering Of Spring's sweet pageantry, Have here small sojourning, And all our bright hours bring Death nearer, as they flee. Yet this thing learn of me; The sweet hours fair and free That we have had of yore, The fair things we did see The linkéd melody Of waves upon the shore That rippled in their glee, Are not lost utterly, Though they return no more. But in the true heart's core Thought treasures evermore The tune of birds and breeze: And there the slow years store The flowers our dead Springs wore And scent of blossomed leas: There murmurs o'er and o'er The sound of woodlands hoar With newly burgeoned trees. So for the sad soul's ease Remembrance treasures these Against Time's harvesting, That so, when mild Death frees The soul from Life's disease Of strife and sorrowing, In glass of memories The new hope looks and sees Through Death a brighter Spring.

Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye! Hurrah! for the sea and the sky! In the street the flower-girls cry; In the street the water-carts ply; And a fluter, with features a-wry, Plays fitfully, "Scots, wha hae"— And the throat of that fluter is dry; Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye! And over the roof-tops nigh Comes a waft like a dream of the May; And a lady-bird lit on my tie; And a cock-chafer came with the tray; And a butterfly (no one knows why) Mistook my Aunt's cap for a spray; And "next door" and "over the way" The neighbours take wing and fly: Hurrah! for the sea and the sky! To Buxton, the waters to try,— To Buxton goes old Mrs. Bligh; And the Captain to Homburg and play Will carry his cane and his eye; And even Miss Morgan Lefay Is flitting—to far Peckham Rye; And my Grocer has gone—in a "Shay," And my Tailor has gone—in a "Fly;"— Good-bye to the Town!—good-bye! And it's O for the sea and the sky! And it's O for the boat and the bay! For the white foam whirling by, And the sharp, salt edge of the spray! For the wharf where the black nets fry, And the wrack and the oarweed sway! For the stroll when the moon is high To the nook by the Flag-house gray! For the risus ab angulo shy From the Some-one we designate "Di!" For the moment of silence,-the sigh! "How I dote on a Moon!" "So do I!" For the token we snatch on the sly (With nobody there to say Fie!) Hurrah! for the sea and the sky! So Phillis, the fawn-footed, hie For a hansom. Ere close of the day Between us a "world" must lie,- Good-bye to the Town!-GOOD-BYE! Hurrah! for the sea and the sky!