Go where the water glideth gently ever,

Glideth through meadows that the greenest be; Go, listen to our own beloved river,

Wander in forests, where the small flower layeth Its fairy gem beneath the giant tree;

List to the dim brook, pining as it playeth,

And think of me.

COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE!

And when the sky is silver-pale at even,
And the wind grieveth in the lonely tree,
Walk out beneath the solitary heaven,

And think of me.

And when the moon riseth as she were dreaming,
And treadeth with white feet the lulled sea,
Go, silent as a star, beneath her beaming,

And think of me.

JOHN HAMILTON REYNOLDS,

COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE!

SINCE there's no helpe - come, let us kiss and parte!
Nay, I have done you get no more of me;

And I am glad yea, glad with all my hearte-
-
That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free.
Shake hands forever!-cancel all our vows;
And when we meet at any time againe,

Be it not seene in either of our brows
That we one jot of former love retaine.

Now

at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath When, his pulse failing, Passion speechlesse lies When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,

And Innocence is closing up his eyes

Now if thou would'st when all have given him over From death to life thou might'st him yet recover!

MICHAEL DRAYTON

THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.

To make my lady's obsequies,

My love a minster wrought;
And, in the chantry, service there
Was sung by doleful thought.
The tapers were of burning sighs,
That light and odor gave;

And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,
Enlumined her grave;

And round about, in quaintest guise,

Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies

The fairest thing in mortal eyes.'

Above her lieth spread a tomb,
Of gold and sapphires blue:
The gold doth show her blessedness,
The sapphires mark her true;
For blessedness and truth in her
Were livelily portrayed,

When gracious God with both His hands.

Her goodly substance made.

He framed her in such wondrous wise,

She was, to speak without disguise,

The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

A DEATH-BED.

No more, no more! my heart doth faint
When I the life recall

Of her who lived so free from taint,
So virtuous deemed by all,
That in herself was so complete,

I think that she was ta'en
By God to deck His paradise,

And with his saints to reign;

Whom, while on earth, each one did prize
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

But naught our tears avail, or cries:

All soon or late in death shall sleep;

Nor living wight long time may keep
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.

CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.

Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.

A DEATH-BED.

HER suffering ended with the day;

Yet lived she at its close,

And breathed the long, long night away,
In statue-like repose.

But when the sun, in all his state,

Illumed the eastern skies,

She passed through Glory's morning-gate,

And walked in Paradise!

(French.)

JAMES ALDRICH.

FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER YOU WELCOME THE HOUR.

FAREWELL! but whenever you welcome the hour

That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower,
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too,
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you.
His griefs may return-not a hope may remain
Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain;
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw
Its enchantment around him while lingering with you.

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up
To the highest top-sparkle each heart and each cup,
Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,
My soul, happy friends! shall be with you that night
Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,
And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles:
Too blest if it tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer,
Some kind voice had murmured, "I wish he were here!'

Let Fate do her worst! there are relics of joy,
Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy-
Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,
And bring back the features that joy used to wear.
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!
Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled :
You may break, you may ruin, the vase if you will,
But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

THOMAS MOORE.