A. MARY F. ROBINSON

TO A DRAGON-FLY

You hail from Dream-land, Dragon-fly?

A stranger hither? So am I,

And (sooth to say) I wonder why

We either of us came,

Are you (that shine so bright i' the air)
King Oberon's state-messenger?

Come tell me how my old friends fare,
Is Dream-land still the same?

Who won the latest tourney fight,
King Arthur, or the Red-Cross Knight,
Or he who bore away the bright

Renown'd Mambrino's Casque ?
Is Caliban King's councillor yet?
Cross Mentor jester still and pet?
Is Suckling out of love and debt?

Has Spenser done his task?

Born 1856

Say, have they settled over there,
Which is the loveliest Guinevere,
Or Gloriana or the fair

Young Queen of Oberon's Court?
And does Titania torment still
Mike Drayton and sweet-throated Will?
In sooth of her amours 'twas ill
To make such merry sport.

Ah, I have been too long away!
No doubt I shall return some day,
But now I'm lost in love and may
Not leave my Lady's sight.
Mine is, (of course), the happier lot,
Yet-tell them I forget them not,
My pretty gay compatriot,

When you go home to-night.

LE ROI EST MORT

And shall I weep that Love's no more,

And magnify his reign?

Sure never mortal man before

Would have his grief again.

Farewell the long-continued ache,
The days a-dream, the nights awake,
I will rejoice and merry make,
And never more complain.

King Love is dead and gone for aye,
Who ruled with might and main,
For with a bitter word one day,

I found my tyrant slain,

And he in Heathenesse was bred,
Nor ever was baptized, 'tis said,
Nor is of any creed, and dead
Can never rise again.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES

A little marsh-plant, yellow green.

All day long and every day

All night as in my dreams I lay

And now I speak, not with the bird's free voice
And shall I weep that Love's no more
An idle poet, here and there

As he who finds one flower sharp thorns among
As, to the pipe, with rhythmic feet
Assemble, all ye maidens, at the door
Atlantid islands, phantom-fair

Back to the flower-town, side by side
Between two golden tufts of summer grass

By Wellesbourne and Charlcote ford

Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height.

Day of my life! Where can she get
Does the road wind up-hill all the way

Far off the old snows ever new

Flower of the medlar

Gods fade; but God abides, and in man's heart
Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the hill.
Green are the leaves, and sweet the flowers
Grow old along with me

Had she come all the way for this.
Heap cassia, sandal-buds and stripes
He had played for his lordship's levee
Here I'd come when weariest

He rose at dawn and, fired with hope
How strange a thing a lover seems

I do not bid thee spare me, O dreadful mother.
I dream'd I was in Sicily

If I should die this night, (as well might be
I have led her home, my love, my only friend.
I have loved flowers that fade

I know a little garden close

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland
In the hall of Leodwulf was made good cheer.
In this lone, open glade I lie.

I said-Then, dearest, since 'tis so

It was not like your great and gracious ways.
I wandered by the brook-side.

I wonder do you feel to-day

Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom

Little maiden, dost thou pine.

Love is enough: ho ye who seek saving

Love slept upon the lone hill-side

Man is permitted much.

Methought I met a Lady yestereven

Mortals who attempt the seas

My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes

No, for I'll save it! Seven years since

No seed shall perish which the soul hath sown
Now did you mark a falcon.