POETRY.
TO GEORGE MEREDITH.
"I BEFALL sup late, but royally, though late : And few, but fit, the table company ; Princes and seers, the learned and the great,
My chosen guests shall be!"
Bo spake, in scorn of a neglectful world, That from his golden numbers turned away, Lander: the boast the haughty poet hurled Might well be thine to-day I Like him, thy shallow brethren left thee long To ply thy perfect art in loneliness.
Now to thy festival, an eager throng, With wreaths and crowns they press.
The buds of softer climes and kindlier soil They bring, and cast before the singer's chair.
I too, with no fair garden-plot to spoil, Would lay an offering there.
But mine were plucked upon a wind-swept hill, Where the fierce North with the poor blossoms played; The frost bath touched them, but it could not kill, Nor the noon sunshine fade.
So let them lie amid the lavish showers Of tenderer blooms about thy cumbered throne: This tiny sheaf of hardy heather flowers Laid by a hand unknown.
EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEEL
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