TO ROBERT HERRICK.

Jocund Herrick tho’ this age Leaves uncut thy merry page, Leaves thy song, thy robust jest For Quixotic modern quest; Thinks that all poetic bliss Is summed in soul-analysis; Swinburne’s strange erratic flight, Weird desire and wild delight; Pleasures in the paltry host— Starveling muse’s meager ghost Dribbling song in purblind flow— Poesy has sunk so low. I would see beside the rill Decked with Lawn and Daffodil Sweetly thro’ the morning air— Corinna going to the fair! I would hear the birds and bees Sung of in Hesperides; Would that I were with you there, Drunken with the dewy air. And Julia, paragon of grace, I would look upon her face; Then might I inspired be, Fit to join thy company. Ah! Herrick, softly on thy mound I would still bestrew the ground— Daffodil and rosemary Tokens for thy memory. Eugene R. White.