For Government Republics I would choose,
Wherein the Star of Liberty doth shine;
Where equal rights for all are all men's dues,
And every man's a King by right divine!

But when it comes to Love — Autocracy!
Avaunt, ye Brotherhoods! Ye are but vain!
No equal rights in Chloe's heart for me —
I'd be the Czar of all that fair demesne!

June's a-comin'! June's a-comin'! Comin' right along!
I can hear the bees a-hummin' chock-a-block with song!
I can hear the birds a-floppin',
And the rosy buds a-poppin',
While the blossoms white are droppin'
In a snowy throng!

I can hear the bells a-ringin' in the steeples high
Tellin' how young Love's a-wingin', laughter in his eye,
As the brides and grooms a-smilin'
Walk the primrose way beguilin',
In their dreams of bliss a-whilin'
Honeyed hours by!

On the pike the tramps are trampin', void of every care,

Wouldst hear strange music only the dreamer knows,
Breath sweeter than breathing of winds that have been with the rose?

Wouldst see strange light that deep in the shadow plays,
Wouldst pluck the secret from out the heart of the days?

Then follow Love and that other who feeds on her sweet;
Yea, follow Love and Grief, and fall low at their feet.

Hast seen the morn, the first light in his eyes,
Look loveliness along the sullen skies?
Hast marked spent day, slow journeying, backward turn,
Though, one by one, the stars begin to burn?
Hast seen the dream-shapes, pale with winter yet,
Warming wood-spaces for the violet?
Hast heard the spring-song on the wild March air,
And all the world 's a lover listening there?
Hast heard the lay the bush-bird long did keep,
Only, at last, to sing it in his sleep?
Hast heard the brook, where all the boughs are old,
Run under them, lulling the leafy fold?

From the withered, bitter ground
Every sweet has taken leave?
Joy, there's none of sight or sound,
Naught to do but sit and grieve?
Look — the blue! bent close above,
Close above;
While it hovers we may love

Pray on, pray on; Pray on dem light us over;
Pray on, Pray on, De union break of day.
My sister, you come to see baptize,
In de union break of day;
My 'loved sister, you come to see baptize,
In de union break of day.

A ROMANCE OF TRAVEL.

Bertha — Writing from Venice .

I .

On your heart I feign myself fallen — ah, heavier burden,
Darling, of sorrow and pain than ever shall rest there! I take you
Into these friendless arms of mine, that you cannot escape me;
Closer and closer I fold you, and tell you all, and you listen
Just as you used at home, and you let my sobs and my silence
Speak, when the words will not come — and you understand and forgive me.

A woman launts her lover:

Look at the little darlings in the corn!
The rye is taller than you, who think yourself
So high and mighty: look how its heads are borne
Dark and proud on the sky, like a number of knights
Passing with spears and pennants and manly scorn.

And always likely! Oh, if I could ride
With my head held high-serene against the sky,
Do you think I'd have a creature like you at my side
With your gloom and your doubt that you love me?
O darling rye,
How I adore you for your simple pride!

My grief and my paint a mortal disease is love,
Woe, woe unto him who must prove it a month or even a day,
It hath broken my heart, and my bosom is burdened with sighs,
From dreaming of her gentle sleep hath forsaken mine eyes.

I met with the fairy host at the liss beside Ballyfinnane;
I asked them had they a herb for the curing of love's cruel pain.
They answered me softly and mildly, with many a pitying tone,
" When this torment comes into the heart it never goes out again. "

It seems to me long till the tide washes up on the strand;

WITH THANKS TO G. K. CHESTERTON

Their hearts are bowed with sorrow,
They love to wail and croon;
They shed big tears when they sigh, " Machree, "
Floods when they sob, " Aroon! "

For the Young Gaels of Ireland
Are the lads that drive me mad;
For half their words need foot-notes,
And half their rhymes are bad.