But know, my friend, thou only shar'st
The fate of all creation

(Though this, 'tis true, at best is but
A sorry consolation);

The bees buzz round about the flowers,
Till they've got all the honey,

And Jim and Joe are flush of friends
But while they're flush of money.

And just like thine (proud cavity!)
The lot of poets, sages,

Since our old earth began to turn
And measure out the ages.
The "many-headed" swallows all
Their music or their learning-
Nought more to gain-its idols leaves,
With no thoughts of returning.

But though they may neglected die,
The years of triumph ended,

Their thoughts and words still light the world
As with a sunrise splendid.

And thou, take comfort that thy gifts,

O'er earth and ocean flying,

Fill commerce' sails, turn trade's loud wheels,

Though thou'rt deserted lying!

DEAD LEAVES: A SONG.

WHEN these dead leaves were green, love,
November's skies were blue,

And summer came with lips aflame

The gentle spring to woo;

Y

And to us, wandering hand in hand,
Life was a fairy scene,

That golden morning in the woods

When these dead leaves were green!

How dream-like now that dewy morn,
Sweet with the wattle's flowers,
When love, love, love was all our theme,
And youth and hope were ours!
Two happier hearts in all the land
There were not then, I ween,

Than those young lovers'-yours and mine-
When these dead leaves were green.

How gaily did you pluck these leaves
From the acacia bough,

To mark the lyric we had read—

I can repeat it now!

While came the words, like music sweet,
Your smiling lips between-

"So fold my love within your heart".
When these dead leaves were green!

How many springs have passed since then?
Ah, wherefore should we count?
The years have sped, like waters fled,
From Time's unceasing fount.
We've had our share of happiness,

Our share of care have seen;

But love alone has never flown

Since these dead leaves were green,

Your heart is kind and loving still,
Your face to me as fair

As when, that morn, the sunshine played
Amid your golden hair.

So, dearest, sweethearts still we'll be,
As we have ever been,

And keep our love as fresh and true
As when these leaves were green.

GEORGE GORDON M'CRAE.

[This well-known Victorian poet and litterateur was born in Scotland. He has been for many years before the Australian public as the poet of the now fast-fleeting race we have displaced at the antipodes. M'Crae's Mamba and Balladéadro are really beautiful attempts to infuse poetry into the legends of the Aborigines. Mr. M'Crae has contributed much excellent "occasional" verses to the Melbourne weekly newspapers and reviews, which it is to be hoped will be collected into a compendious volume. He is married, and has held for many years an official appointment in the Victorian Civil Service. Mr. M'Crae is a man of singular taste and culture, and also no mean artist, and on one occasion cleverly illustrated a comic annual for Mr. Garnet Walch.]

RICHARD HENGIST HORNE.*

Two centuries by Time's glass he came too late
(The statelier muse entranced him by the way),
And when he woke it was to find all state,
And church, and king-craft changed,

Romaunt and play.

Still would his muse the stern-browed gods invoke
In vigorous numbers worthy of the Greek,
Which, rolling down the æons, grandly broke
On modern ears, in melody antique-

Or, flinging far the lute, he'd deftly fit

* This poem was printed from a very careless manuscript, the only copy the editor could procure.

The syrinx to his lips, breathing therein such soft
And gentle cadence as belongs to it,

To rouse the fauns and dryads of the grove,
The mischief-loving satyrs, and such life.
As was, when man with giants chiefly strove.

Caviare, like Shelley, to the general, he
Yet lives, or rather now begins to live,

When what most men call dead; right solitary
'Neath that brave soil from whence he sprang and grew
Lies Richard Hengist Horne, or what was he,

Brave singer of blue skies and bluer sea,
That in their noble ever-wedded blue
Prefigure in their shapes Eternity.

With Spencer or with Shakespeare he had graced
A court of sages and heroic souls;

And then our grand Elizabeth had placed.

The laurel on his brows 'mid thund'rous skies.
Hail! brave Orion, girt about with stars,
The deathless calm of ages in his eyes,
With lion-skin on arm, which fitly bars
The idler from Elysium; now we hear
With knowledge, arts, all excellence of life
And comfort, while the Proto-Martyr lay
'Neath the fierce eagle 'mid Caucasian snows.

But here, beneath the Cross, we do not mete
Our guerdon to the poet-we forget
The virile genius and the song health-sweet,
Twin gems in one brave antique scrollwork set.

Alas for us! Alas! the times, that he,
Our chiefest, noblest singer thus should die.
All undistinguished-not a "C. M. G."-
To lay upon his coffin reverently.

The glorious epic of the age again

Rings through the vaulted heav'n; behold the seer
Who sang Orion's labours, showed to men

Him whom we gaze on, 'mid the stars unfurled,
And mapped in silver splendour on the night,
With feet upon a subjugated world.

In after-echoes clear, not less intense,

We trace the legend of the Friend of Man,
Prometheus! by whose skill and shrewd pretence
Fire, brought from Heaven, upon our hearths began.
Yet more distinguished thus, beyond the blue
That fences us from other, stranger lands
Is the grand name he bears—a poet true,
The singer of brave work and helping hands.

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE COOK CENTENARY.

SUGGESTED BY A RELIC IN THE FORM OF A PAPER-WEIGHT MADE FROM ONE OF THE TIMBERS OF

66
H.M.S. ENDEAVOUR."

"Ex pede Herculem !-Behold!
A chip from Britain's block of old,
A Heart of Oak from Chips's mould

Aboard the brave "Endeavour!"
Methinks my life's begun again,
I view anew each rope and chain
That swung or creaked in wind and rain,
Or rattled all together.

In days when "tails

were all the vogue, And every handsome sleek-limbed rogue, From John O'Groat's to Cape La Hogue,

Wore stockings, pumps, and breeches,