I. Porfirio Diaz-Soldier and Statesman. By Percy F. Martin II. III. IV. V. QUARTERLY REVIEW As It Happened. Book IV. Hard Nuts and Soft Kernels. Chapter II. BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE The Charity of the Middle Ages. NATION 44 FOR SIX DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, THE LIVING AGE will be punctually for warded for a year, free of postage, to any part of the United States. To Canada the postage is 50 cents per annum. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office or express money order if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, express and money orders should be made payable to the order of THE LIVING AGE CO. Single Copies of THE LIVING AGE, 15 cents. 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, 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; Their rood-screen rich hang over! Of soft leaf-searching whispers, From whose mossed bench the nightingale To all the vale chant vespers; My organ hid be cuckoo; The Thrush. |