TO OSCAR WILDE,

No Marsyas am I, who singing came To challenge King Apollo at a Test, But a love-wearied singer at the best. The myrtle leaves are all that I can claim, While on thy brow there burns a crown of flame, Upon thy shield Italia's eagle crest; Content am I with Lesbian leaves to rest, Guard thou thy laurels and thy mother's name. I buried Love within the rose I meant To deck the fillet of thy Muse's hair; I take this wild-flower, grown against her feet, And kissing its half-open lips I swear, Frail though it be and widowed of its scent, I plucked it for your sake and find it sweet. Moore Hall, September, 1878. From The Irish Monthly, Vol. vi, No. 65.