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When the young shoots grow lusty overhead,

Here, where the spring sun smiles, the spring wind
grieves,

When budding violets close above thee spread
Their small, heart-shapen leaves,

Pass, O Belovéd, to dreams from slumber deep;
Recount the store that mellowing time endears,
Tread, through the measureless mazes of thy sleep,
Our old, unchangeful years.

Lie still and listen

while thy sheltering tree
Whispers of suns that rose, of suns that set –
For far-off echoes of the Spring and me.
Dream- do not quite forget.

THE ISLE OF VOICES.

Fair blows the wind to-day, fresh along the valleys, Strange with the sounds and the scents of long ago; Sinks in the willow-grove, shifts, and sighs, and rallies Whence, Wind, and why, Wind, and whither do you go?

Why, Wind, and whence, Wind? - Yet well and well I know it

-

Word from a lost world, a world across the sea;
No compass guides there, never chart will show it
Green grows the grave there that holds the heart of me.

Sunk lies my ship, and the cruel sea rejoices,
Sharp are the reefs where the hungry breakers fret-
Land so long lost to me! - Youth, the Isle of Voices,
Call never more to me -I who must forget.

ALL-SOULS DAY.

--

To-day is theirs the unforgotten dead
For strange and sweet communion set apart,
When the strong, living heart

Beats in the dissolute dust, the darkened bed,
Rebuilds the form beloved, the vanished face,

Relights the blown-out lamps o' the faded eyes,
Touches the clay-bound lips to tenderest speech,
Saying, "Awake - arise!

To-day the warm hands of the living reach

To chafe the cold hands of the long-loved dead;
Once more the lonely head

Leans on a living breast, and feels the rain

Of falling tears, and listens yet again

To the dear voice the voice that never in vain

Could sound the old behest.

Each seeks his own to-day; - but, ah, not II enter

not

That sacred shrine beneath the solemn sky;

I claim no commerce with the unforgot.

My thoughts and prayers must be

Even where mine own fixed lot hereafter lies,
With that great company

For whom no wandering breeze of memory sighs
Through the dim prisons of imperial Death:
They in the black, unfathomed oubliette

For ever and ever set

They, the poor dead whom none remembereth.

LES FOINS.

They are mowing the meadows now, and the

whispering, sighing

Song of the scythe breathes sweet on mine idle

ear,

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Songs of old Summers dead, and of this one dying, -
Roses on roses fallen, and year on year;

Softly as swathes that sink while the long scythe, swinging,

Passes and pauses and sweeps through the deep

green grass:

Strange how this song of the scythe sets the old days singing

Echoes of seasons gone, and of these that pass,

Fair ghost of Youth from your sea-fragrant
orchard-closes

Called by the voice of the scythe as it sighs
and swings-

Tell to me now as you toss me your phantom roses,
What was the dream you dreamed through

those vagrant Springs?

What that forgotten air when the heart went maying?

What was the perfume blowing afar, anear?

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"The rose you saw not the tune that you could not hear."

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ATSON, THOMAS, an English poet; born at London, England, about 1557; died in 1592. His poems, pastoral and amatory, equaled in popularity those of his friends Spenser and Sidney. He translated Sophocles' Antigone into Latin (1581); and wrote: Ekatompathia; or, Passionate Century of Love (1582); Melibaus, Thoma Watsoni; sive, Ecloga in Obitum Domini Francisci Walsinghami Equitis Aurati (1590); The Tears of Fancie; or, Love Disdained (1591).

SONNETS.

When May is in his prime, and youthful Spring
Doth clothe the tree with leaves and ground with

flowers,

And time of year reviveth every thing,

And lovely Nature smiles and nothing lowers;

Then Philomela most doth strain her breast
With night-complaints, and sits in little rest.
The bird's estate I may compare with mine,
To whom fond Love doth work such wrongs by day,
That in the night my heart must needs repine,
And storm with sighs to ease me as I may;
Whilst others are becalmed or lie them still,
Or sail secure with tide and wind at will.
And as all those which hear this bird complain,
Conceive in all her tunes a sweet delight,
Without remorse or pitying her pain;

So she, for whom I wail both day and night,
Doth sport herself in hearing my complaint;
A just reward for serving such a saint!

Time wasteth years, and months, and hours;
Time doth consume fame, honour, wit, and strength;
Time kills the greenest herbs and sweetest flowers;
Time wears out Youth and Beauty's looks at length;
Time doth convey to ground both foe and friend,
And each thing else but Love, which hath no end.
Time maketh every tree to die and rot;
Time turneth oft our pleasure into pain;
Time causeth wars and wrongs to be forgot;
Time clears the sky which first hung full of rain;
Time makes an end of all human desire,
But only this which sets my heart on fire.
Time turneth into nought each princely state;
Time brings a flood from new-resolved snow;
Time calms the sea where tempest was of late;
Time eats whate'er the moon can see below;
And yet no time prevails in my behoof,
Nor any time can make me cease to love!

τα

ATSON, WILLIAM, an English poet; born at
Wharfedale, Yorkshire, August 2, 1859. He

was educated privately. In 1876 he began his literary work by contributions of verse and prose to the Liverpool Argus. In 1880 appeared The Prince's Quest (verse), which attracted little attention. It was not until Wordsworth's Grave appeared in 1891 that he began to be looked upon as a poet of promise. He became famous by his Lachrymæ Musarum, an elegy on the death of Alfred Tennyson, and containing many touches of Milton's Lycidas. The poetry-reading world at once declared this poem the finest of the many tributes paid to the dead laureate, and a cash gift of $1,000 was tendered to the young author by the Gladstone Government. He had already been eagerly spoken of for the laureateship, and some of his friends, thinking the proffered bounty was intended to dismiss his claim to the successorship of Tennyson, advised against its acceptance. He received assurances, however, that nothing of the kind. was intended, and accepted the gift. The laureateship remained vacant until Salisbury resumed the government. In March, 1895, the Government granted him an annuity of $500. In 1896 appeared his sonnets on the Armenian massacres and the refusal of the nations to intervene, published under the title The Purple East. These made his name common property wherever the English tongue is spoken. His other works are Epigrams of Art, Life and Nature (1884); Ver Tenebrosum (a sonnet series attacking the English occupation of Egypt, 1885); The Eloping Angels; Poems; and Excursions in Criticism (1893); Odes

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