A PASTORAL

Flower of the medlar,

Crimson of the Quince,

I saw her at the blossom-time,
And loved her ever since!
She swept the draughty pleasance,
The blooms had left the trees,
The whilst the birds sang canticles,
In cheery symphonies.

Whiteness of the white rose,

Redness of the red,

She went to cut the blush-rose-buds To tie at the altar-head;

And some she laid in her bosom,

And some around her brows,

And as she past, the lily-heads

All beck'd and made their bows.

Scarlet of the poppy,

Yellow of the corn,

The men were at the garnering,
A-shouting in the morn;

I chased her to a pippin-tree,

The waking birds all whist,

And oh! it was the sweetest kiss
That I have ever kiss'd.

Marjorie, mint, and violets

A-drying round us set,

'Twas all done in the faïence-room

A-spicing marmalet ;

On one tile was a satyr,

On one a nymph at bay,

Methinks the birds will scarce be home To wake our wedding-day!

SONG

I dream'd I was in Sicily,
All sky and hills and flowers;

We sat us under a citron-tree

And courted, hours and hours.

I woke by the dunes of a bleak north-land,
Along a lonely grave in the snow;
The salt wind rattled the ivy-band

I'd tied at the headstone long ago.

MARGARET L. WOODS

TO THE FOrgotten DEAD

To the forgotten dead,

Come, let us drink in silence ere we part.

To every fervent yet resolvèd heart

Born 1855

That brought its tameless passion and its tears,
Renunciation and laborious years,

To lay the deep foundations of our race,

To rear its stately fabric overhead

And light its pinnacles with golden grace

To the unhonoured dead.

To the forgotten dead,

Whose dauntless hands were stretched to grasp the rein

Of Fate and hurl into the void again

Her thunder-hoofèd horses, rushing blind
Eastward along the courses of the wind.

Among the stars, along the wind in vain

Their souls were scattered and their blood was shed,

And nothing, nothing of them doth remain

To the thrice-perished dead.

MARY DARMESTETER

TO A DRAGON-FLY

Born 1857

You hail from Dream-land, Dragon-fly?
A stranger hither? So am I,

And (sooth to say) I wonder why

We either of us came,

Are you (that shine so bright i' the air)
King Oberon's state-messenger?

Come tell me how my old friends fare,
Is Dream-land still the same?

Who won the latest tourney fight,
King Arthur, or the Red-Cross Knight,
Or he who bore away the bright

Renown'd Mambrino's Casque ?
Is Caliban King's councillor yet?
Cross Mentor jester still and pet?
Is Suckling out of love and debt?

Has Spenser done his task?

Say, have they settled over there,
Which is the loveliest Guinevere,
Or Gloriana, or the fair

Young Queen of Oberon's Court? And does Titania torment still

Mike Drayton and sweet-throated Will?
In sooth of her amours 'twas ill
To make such merry sport.

Ah, I have been too long away!
No doubt I shall return some day,
But now I'm lost in love and may
Not leave my lady's sight.
Mine is, (of course), the happier lot
Yet-tell them I forget them not,
My pretty gay compatriot,

When you go home to-night.

LE ROI EST MORT

And shall

weep that Love's no more,

And magnify his reign?

Sure never mortal man before

Would have his grief again.