TO MIRANDA.

Daughter of her whose face, and lofty

name

Prenuptial, of old States and Cities

speak,

Where lands of wine look north to peak on peak

Of the overwatching Alps: through her, you claim

Kinship with vanished Power, unvanished Fame;

And midst a word grown colorless and bleak

I see the blood of Doges in your cheek, And in your hair the Titian tints of flame.

Daughter of England too, you first drew breath

Where our coy Springs to our coy Summers yield;

And you descend from one whose lance and shield

Were with the grandsire of Elizabeth, When the Plantagenet saw the avenger Death

Toward him spurring over Bosworth field.

William Watson.

AVE SOROR.

I left behind the ways of care,
The crowded hurrying hours,
I breathed again the woodland air,
I plucked the woodland flowers:

Bluebells as yet but half awake, Primroses pale and cool, Anemones like stars that shake In a green twilight pool

On these still lay an enchanted shade, The magic April sun;

With my own child a child I strayed And thought the years were one.

As through the copse she went and

came

My senses lost their truth;

I called her by the dear dead name That sweetened all my youth. Henry Newbolt.

MY BURIAL.

BY DAFYDD AB GWILYM.

When I die, O bury me

Within the free young wildwood;
Little birches o'er me bent
Lamenting as my child would!
Let my surplice-shroud be spun
Of sparkling summer clover;
While the great and stately trees

Their rood-screen rich hang over!
For my bier-cloth blossomed May
Outlay on eight green willows!
Seagulls white to bear my pall
Take flight from all the billows.
Summer's cloister be my church

Of soft leaf-searching whispers, From whose mossed bench the nightingale

To all the vale chant vespers;
Mellow-toned the brake amid.

My organ hid be cuckoo;
Paters, seemly hours and psalm
Bird voices calm re-echo!
Mystic masses, sweet addresses,
Blackbird, be thou offering,
Till God His bard to Paradise
Uplift from sighs and suffering.
Alfred Perceval Graves.

The Thrush.