O_thers unasked their wit have tasked_
    T_o sound unending praise of Boston_—­
  O_f bean-vines found for miles around_
    A_nd crooked streets that I get lost on_.

  G_ive me no jar of truck or car_,
    N_o city smoke and noise of mills_;
  R_ather the slow Connecticut’s flow_
    A_nd sunny orchards on the hills_.

  T_here like the haze of summer days_
    B_efore the wind flee care and sorrow_. 
  I_n sure content each day is spent_,
    U_nheeding what may come to-morrow_.

VITAS HINNULEO

DONE BY MR. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

  I met a little Roman maid;
    S_he was just sixteen (she said)_,
  A_nd O! but she was sore afraid_,
    A_nd hung her modest head_.

  A little fawn, you would have vowed,
    T_hat sought her mother’s side_,
  A_nd wandered lonely as a cloud_
    U_pon the mountain wide_.

  W_hene’er the little lizards stirred_
    S_he started in her fear_;
  I_n every rustling bush she heard_
    S_ome awful monster near_.

  “I_’m not a lion; fear not so_;
    S_eek not your timid dam_.”—­
  B_ut Chloe was afraid, and O!_
    S_he knows not what I am_: 

    A creature quite too bright and good
    To be so much misunderstood.

Again, in Austin Dobson’s exquisite Triolet, whether the inspiration of the poem itself is in Horace, or the inspiration, so far as Horace is concerned, lies in the choice of title after the verses were written, we must in either case confess a debt of great delight to the author of the Ars Poetica: 

URCEUS EXIT

  I_ intended an Ode_,
    A_nd it turned to a Sonnet_. 
  I_t began_ a la mode,
  I_ intended an Ode_;
  B_ut Rose crossed the road_
  I_n her latest new bonnet_;
    I_ intended an Ode_,
  A_nd it turned to a Sonnet_.

The same observation applies equally to the same author’s Iocosa Lyra: 

IOCOSA LYRA

  I_n our hearts is the great one of Avon_
                                E_ngraven_,
  A_nd we climb the cold summits once built on_
                                B_y Milton_;

  B_ut at times not the air that is rarest_
                                I_s fairest_,
  A_nd we long in the valley to follow_
                                A_pollo_.

  T_hen we drop from the heights atmospheric_
                                T_o Herrick_,
  O_r we pour the Greek honey, grown blander_,
                                O_f Landor_,

  O_r our cosiest nook in the shade is_
                                W_here Praed is_,
  O_r we toss the light bells of the mocker_
                                W_ith Locker_.