But a round woman, who, with insight keen, Had wrought a scheme of life, and measured well Her womanhood; had spread before her feet Had won a faith to which her life was brought 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, 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 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, In Sabine woods, and fancy-free, Such portent in the oaken grove, 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, I'll love them there. Translated by W. E. Gladstone. HORACE. LALAGE. WHA Who maketh all things sweet With smiles that dream about her, With dreams that come and fleet! Soft moods that end in languor; Sweet eyes born but for slaying, Dear tears as sweet as laughter, Sad tears we knew not of. 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 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, |