DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK.

AFTER SUMMER.

We’ll not weep for summer over,—­
      No, not we: 
Strew above his head the clover,—­
      Let him be!

Other eyes may weep his dying,
      Shed their tears
There upon him, where he’s lying
      With his peers.

Unto some of them he proffered
      Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,—­
      Was this meet?

All our fond hopes, praying, perished
      In his wrath,—­
All the lovely dreams we cherished
      Strewed his path.

Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
     Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
      Heart from heart,

Dream at all of all the sorrows
      That were ours,—­
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
      Poison-flowers

Summer gathered, as in madness,
      Saying, “See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,—­
      Gifts from me”?

Nay, the rest that will be ours
      Is supreme,
And below the poppy flowers
      Steals no dream.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.

LAMENT FOR HELIODORE.

Tears for my lady dead—­
      Heliodore! 
Salt tears, and strange to shed,
      Over and o’er;
Tears to my lady dead,
      Love do we send,
Longed for, remembered,
      Lover and friend! 
Sad are the songs we sing,
      Tears that we shed,
Empty the gifts we bring
      Gifts to the dead! 
Go, tears, and go, lament,
      Fare from her tomb,
Wend where my lady went
      Down through the gloom! 
Ah, for my flower, my love,
      Hades hath taken I
Ah, for the dust above
      Scattered and shaken! 
Mother of blade and grass,
      Earth, in thy breast
Lull her that gentlest was
      Gently to rest!

From the Greek of MELEAGER. 
Translation of ANDREW LANG.

ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I.

’T is done! a father, mother, gone,
   A sister, brother, torn away,
My hope is now in God alone,
   Whom heaven and earth alike obey. 
Above, beneath, to him is known,—­
The world’s wide compass is his own.

I love,—­but in the world no more,
   Nor in gay hall, or festal bower;
Not the fair forms I prized before,—­
   But him, all beauty, wisdom, power,
My Saviour, who has cast a chain
On sin and ill, and woe and pain!

I from my memory have effaced
   All former joys, all kindred, friends;
All honors that my station graced
   I hold but snares that fortune sends: 
Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast,
That we may be his own at last!

From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, QUEEN OF NAVARRE. 
Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.