Volume 107 — AT LAST.

At last the sky is actually blue. Say not "dull, hazy, cloudy, overcast," O weather prophets, "fine" alone is true At last. At last, as June is finishing, the Row Looks bright and gay. The difference is vast; The sunlit grass, the rhododendrons glow At last. At last my topper flies not in the gale, I gazing on its ruin quite aghast, Nor gets all spotted after rain or hail, At last. At last it rests serenely on my brow, As firm as colours nailed to any mast; In fact it's somewhat hot and heavy now, At last. At last you sport your thinnest frocks, fair maid, Sweet Chloe, Phyllis, Pyrrha, prim or fast. Now Amaryllis dallies in the shade At last. At last Neæra's hair is undisturbed, Not out of curl from damp, nor by the blast In tangles blown. She smiles quite unperturbed At last. At last. But soon the rain, the fog, the haze May spoil light frocks that now sweep gaily past. For tempora mutantur; such fine days Can't last.