of Sermione (the Latin Sirmio), where Catullus had his country house, is about three miles and a half to the east of Desenzano. There are some slight remains of an ancient building on the edge of the lake, said to belong to the poet's villa; and on a hill near by are fragments of Roman baths.

Row us out from Desenzano, to your Sirmione row!

So they row'd, and there we landed - 'O venusta Sirmio!'

There to me thro' all the groves of olive in the summer glow,

There beneath the Roman ruin where the purple flowers grow,

Came that Ave atque Vale' of the Poet's hopeless woe,

Tenderest of Roman poets nineteen hundred years ago,

'Frater Ave atque Vale '- as we wander'd to and fro

Gazing at the Lydian laughter of the Garda Lake below

Sweet Catullus's all-but-island, olive-silvery Sirmio!

HELEN'S TOWER

[Written at the request of my friend, Lord Dufferin.]

Inscribed on the walls of a tower erected in 1860 by the Earl of Dufferin on his estate near Belfast, as a tribute to his mother, the late Countess of Gifford, and named after her. The fourth line refers to a poetical inscription on the tower, written by Lady Gifford to her

son.

Later, in 1861, 'Helen's Tower' was privately printed by Lord Dufferin. It was also printed in Good Words' for January, 1884, before it appeared in the Tiresias' volume.

HELEN'S TOWER, here I stand,
Dominant over sea and land.
Son's love built me, and I hold
Mother's love in letter'd gold.
Love is in and out of time,
I am mortal stone and lime.
Would my granite girth were strong
As either love, to last as long!
I should wear my crown entire
To and thro' the Doomsday fire,
And be found of angel eyes

In earth's recurring Paradise.

For the first version of this song, which appeared in the London Examiner for February 7, 1852, see the Notes.

FIRST pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man's the best Cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.
May freedom's oak for ever live

With stronger life from day to day;
That man 's the true Conservative
Who lops the moulder'd branch away.
Hands all round!

God the traitor's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,

And the great name of England, round and round.

To all the loyal hearts who long

To keep our English Empire whole ! To all our noble sons, the strong

New England of the Southern Pole! To England under Indian skies,

To those dark millions of her realm! To Canada whom we love and prize, Whatever statesman hold the helm. Hands all round!

God the traitor's hope confound! To this great name of England drink, my friends,

And all her glorious empire, round and round.