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But a round woman, who, with insight keen, Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured

well

Her womanhood; had spread before her feet
A fine philosophy to guide her steps;

Had won a faith to which her life was brought
In strict adjustment, brain and heart meanwhile
Working in conscious harmony and rhythm
With the great scheme of God's great universe,
On towards her being's end.

From "Kathriną."

JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

KITTY.

MAID of all maids!—and the wide earth is

full of them,

Tender and witching, and slender and tallI know a maid takes the shine off the whole of

them;

Kitty, agra, you outrival them all.

Pretty and sweet are you, neat and complete

are you,

Type of the grace of an old Irish stock;

Rich are you, rare are you, fresh are you, fair

are you

Kitty, agra, you 're the flower of the flock.

When I kneel down at Mass, where are my thoughts, alas?

Naught but the light of a bright face I see ; All that my praying is, all that I'm saying is, "God bless sweet Kitty, and keep her for me."

Hourly I sigh for you, proudly I'd die for you,
Joyfully lay down my life on the block;
King on his throne for you true love might
own for you,

Reigning alone for you, flower of the flock.

Maid of all maidens, my life is entwined in thine,

Turning to thee like the flowers to the sun; Tell me, oh! tell me, thy heart is enshrined in mine

Tell me, asthore, we had better be one. Come with me, roam with me, over the foam with me,

Come to my home with me, near Carrig rock, Light of my life to be sweetheart and wife to

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Free from all life to be, flower of the flock.

FRANCIS A. FAHY.

"The Flower of the Flock."

LALAGÈ.

F whole in life and free from sin,

IF

Man needs no Moorish bow, nor dart, Nor quiver, carrying death within By poison's art.

Though frowning Caucasus he treads,
And boiling Syrtes hath defied,
Been, Fuscus, where Hydaspes spreads
His mythic tide.

In Sabine woods, and fancy-free,
A wolf observed my wandering tread;
Unarmed, I sang of Lalagè;
He saw, and fled.

Such portent in the oaken grove,
Hath martial Daunia never known;
Nor Juba's land, where lions rove
The thirsty zone.

Place me, where desert wastes forbid One tree to breathe the summer wind, Where fogs the land and seas have hid, With Jove unkind;

Or, where the sun so near would be,
That none to build or dwell may dare;
Thy voice, thy smile, my Lalagè,

I'll love them there.

Translated by W. E. Gladstone.

HORACE.

LALAGE.

WHA
WHAT were sweet life without her

Who maketh all things sweet

With smiles that dream about her,

With dreams that come and fleet!

Soft moods that end in languor;
Soft words that end in sighs;
Curved frownings as in anger;
Cold silence of her eyes.

Sweet eyes born but for slaying,
Deep violet-dark and lost
In dreams of whilom Maying
In climes unstung of frost.
Wild eyes shot through with fire
God's light in godless years,
Brimmed wine-dark with desire,
A birth for dreams and tears.

Dear tears as sweet as laughter,
Low laughter sweet as love
Unwound in ripples after

Sad tears we knew not of.
What if the day be lawless,
What if the heart be dead,
Such tears would make it flawless,
Such laughter make it red.

Lips that were curled for kisses, For loves, and hates, and scorns,

Brows under gold of tresses,

Brows as beauteous as the Morn's.

Imperial locks and tangled

Down to the graceful hips; Hair where one might be strangled Carousing on thy lips.

Rose-lovely lips that hover
About the honeyed words,
That slip wild bees from clover

Whose sweets their sweet affords. Though days be robbed of sunlight, White teeth make light thereof; Though nights unknown of onelight, Thine eyes were stars enough.

Ah, lily-lovely features,

Round temples, throat, and chin,

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