(S APPHO .)

Mighty Queen of Love, deathless Aphrodite,
Daughter of great Zeus, weaver of enchantments,
Torture not my heart with distress and anguish!
Hear me, I pray thee!

Oh, come hither now, if thou heardst me ever
Calling on thy name, and didst deign to listen,
Leaving thy august father's golden mansion
At my entreating.

To thy chariot yoked, fair fleet sparrows drew thee,
Flapping fast their wings; round the dark earth circling,

Forth from the bosom of Elysian hills
The fountain-spring of life its current pours,
Translucent as the living lymph that fills
The fabled basin in Dorado's floors,
Rejuvenating famed in Spanish shores:
And down it rushes in its shining track,
And now it graceful sweeps, now madly roars;
Until in turbid current foul and slack
It spreads in pools as if to wander back.

As down its current, wider grown and deep,

November daies are short and dour,
And mirk, mirk fa's the night;
Sad and alane, by the firelight dim,
Is a dame, in weedes bedight.

For her four sons are gane frae her —
They are gane for mony a day:
And as she listeth the wind monand,
She grieveth, as well she may.

Twa of them were clerkly taught,
'Mid the hills their weird they drie —
And ane is aff on the high, high land,
And ane is farre in the South Countrie.

" O, quan sall I get letters? " she said,
" And quatten the newes I sall heare? "

Mr. Colummy is out in his park,
He and his tummy,
Mr. Colummy.
As soon as they see him the little dogs bark;
Oh! ever so rummy
Is Mr. Colummy.

Mr. Colummy has riz' with the lark;
Beginnings were slummy
With Mr. Colummy.
He once was a minnow, and now he's a shark.
He used to say: ‘Lumme!’
Did Mr. Colummy.

Mrs. Colummy is pretty and dark,
Awfully plummy
Mrs. Colummy!
Her parents belonged to the island of Sark.
She's not very chummy
With Mr. Colummy.

Master Colummy—his cares do not cark!—

Lo, the white wonder born of night!
The earth reclaims her banished grace,
As Winter, pausing in his flight,
Flings back his snow in April's face.

Heavy with ruddy buds, the trees
Shake off the light flakes, while below
Rejoicing, the beholder sees
The young grass peeping through the snow.

In the brown elms a robin sings
To the chill air a summer tune,—
Fanning the snow-wreaths with his wings,
He laughs a prophecy of June.

O for the robin's faith to-day,
To look beyond these showery glooms,

Beneath this vast serene of sky
Where worlds are but as mica dust,
From age to age the wind goes by;
Unnumbered summer burns the grass.
On granite rocks, at rest from strife,
The æons lie in lichen rust.
Then what is man's so brittle life?—
The humming of the bees that pass!

Soon shall the snow-flakes flutter through the air,
Driven by eddying currents to and fro,
In curious spirals round and round career,
And bury deep the grasses' withering spear
In wild fantastic wreaths of circling snow.

Spring, summer, autumn, all have beauties rare
To captivate the heart and charm the eye.
The zephyrs gay that gently fan the air,
The far-stretched vistas of the woodlands, where
Impervious foliage veils the burning sky,

The modest flowers that deck the fields and hills,

Strange heaviness — I know not why.
The old grief, methought, had grown more light —
And no new ill hath chanced — yet I
Am very sorrowful to-night.

It is not that I cannot bear
The burden countless hearts have borne —
It is not that I shrink to wear
The garment countless limbs have worn —

Nor that, through sordid care and strife,
The soul her comrade must sustain,
To draw with pain the breath of life,
And break their daily bread with pain —

(So fiercely hath it drunk of joy,
So deeply drained the dregs of woe,

Sleep, beloved! the night has come;
Vanished the sunset's golden gleam;
Drowned in darkness, the earth is dumb, —
All but the wind and the lulling stream:
Sleep, beloved! and, haply, dream, —
Dream and dream
Till the morning again shall beam.

Think of the ocean, which evermore
Tosses and strives like a restless soul;
Listen its far, continuous roar,
And its slumberous sigh on the rocky shoal:
Think of the billows which, sobbing, roll, —
Roll and roll,
Finding never their long-sought goal.

If God is thrilled by a battle cry,
If He can bless the moaning fight,
If when the trampling charge goes by
God himself is the leading knight;
If God laughs when the guns thunder,
If He yells when the bullet sings —
Then, bewildered, I but wonder
God of Love can love such things!
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The white gulls wheeling over the plough,
The sun, the reddening trees —
We being enemies, I and thou,
There is no meaning in these.
There is no flight on the wings of Spring,
No scent in the summer rose,