Fell shy, half blushing to be heard.

Last, but ah! surely not least dear,
That blithe and buxom buccaneer,
Th' avenging goddess of her sex,
Born the base soul of man to vex,
And wring from him those tears and sighs
Tortured from woman's heart and eyes.
Ah! fury, fascinating, fair--
When shall I cease to think of _her_!

Paris, half Angel, half Grisette,
I would that I were with thee yet,
But London waits me, like a wife,--
London, the love of my whole life.

Tell her not, Paris, mercy me!
How I have flirted, dear, with thee.

[1] By kind permission of the Editor of _The Yellow Book_.




ALFRED TENNYSON

(WESTMINSTER, OCTOBER 12, 1892)

Great man of song, whose glorious laurelled head
Within the lap of death sleeps well at last,