THE UNFORGOTTEN

Je n'ai pas oublié, voisine de la ville,

Notre blanche maison, petite mais tranquille;
Sa Pomone de plâtre et sa vieille Vénus

Dans un bosquet chétif cachant leurs membres nus,
Et le soleil, le soir, ruisselant et superbe,

Qui, derrière la vitre où se brisait sa gerbe,
Semblait, grand oil ouvert dans le ciel curieux,
Contempler nos dîners longs et silencieux,
Répandant largement ses beaux reflets de cierge
Sur la nappe frugale et les rideaux de serge.

Et tu mourus aussi. Seul, l'âme désolée,
Mais toujours calme et bon, sans te plaindre du sort
Tu marchais en chantant dans ta route isolée.
L'heure dernière vint, tant de fois appelée.

Tu la vis arriver sans crainte et sans remord,
Et tu goûtus en enfin le charme de la mort.

A Baby's Epitaph

APRIL made me : winter laid me here away asleep.

Bright as Maytime was my daytime; night is soft

and deep:

Though the morrow bring forth sorrow, well are ye that

weep.

Ye that held me dear beheld me not a twelvemonth long: All the while ye saw me smile, ye knew not whence the

song

Came that made me smile, and laid me here, and wrought you wrong.

Angels, calling from your brawling world one undefiled, Homeward bade me, and forbade me here to rest beguiled:

Here I sleep not: pass, and weep not here upon your child.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

Delia

WEET as the tender fragrance that survives,

SW

When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives,

Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain,
But never will be sung to us again,

Is thy remembrance. Now the hour of rest
Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling, it is best.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGfellow.

On Salathiel Pavy, a Child of Queen Elizabeth's Chapel

WEEP with me, all you that read

This little story;

And know, for whom a tear you shed,
Death's self is sorry.

"Twas a child that so did thrive

In grace and feature,

As Heaven and Nature seemed to strive
Which owned the creature.

Years he numbered scarce thirteen
When Fates turned cruel;

Yet three filled zodiacs had he been
The stage's jewel;

And did act, what now we moan,
Old men so duly,

As sooth the Parcae thought him one,

He played so truly.

So, by error, to his fate

They all consented;

But, viewing him since (alas, too late!),

They have repented;

And have sought, to give new birth,

In baths to steep him:

But, being so much too good for earth,
Heaven vows to keep him.

BEN JONSON.

THE UNFORGOTTEN

SHE

Early Death

HE passed away like morning dew
Before the sun was high;

So brief her time, she scarcely knew
The meaning of a sigh.

As round the rose its soft perfume,
Sweet love around her floated;
Admired she grew-while mortal doom
Crept on, unfeared, unnoted.

Love was her guardian Angel here,
But Love to Death resigned her;
Though Love was kind, why should we fear
But holy Death is kinder?

HARTLEY Coleridge.

In the Old House

N the old house where we dwelt

IN

No care had come, no grief we knew,

No memory of the past we felt,

No doubt assailed us when we knelt ;

It is not so in the new.

In the old house where we grew

From childhood up, the days were dreams,
The summers had unwonted gleams,
The sun a warmer radiance threw

Upon the stair. Alas! it seems
All different in the new!