And I perhaps may soothe this heart
In thinking too of thee;

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore.

CHARLES WOLFE.

Song.-Go, Forget Me.

Go, forget me! Why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me, and to-morrow

Brightly smile and sweetly sing.
Smile-though I shall not be near thee.
Sing-though I shall never hear thee.
May thy soul with pleasure shine,
Lasting as the gloom of mine.

Like the Sun, thy presence glowing
Clothes the meanest things in light;
And when thou, like him, art going,
Loveliest objects fade in night.
All things looked so bright about thee,
That they nothing seem without thee;
By that pure and lucid mind
Earthly things are too refined.

Go, thou vision wildly gleaming,
Softly on my soul that fell;
Go, for me no longer beaming—
Hope and Beauty, fare ye well!
Go, and all that once delighted
Take, and leave me all benighted:
Glory's burning, generous swell,
Fancy, and the poet's shell.

CHARLES WOLFE.

The First Miracle.

Lympha pudica Deum vidit, et erubuit.

The modest water saw its God, and blushed.

RICHARD CRASHAW.

A Javanese Poem.

I Do not know where I shall die.

I saw the great sea on the south coast, when I was there with my father making salt.

If I die at sea, and my body is thrown into the deep water, then sharks will come:

They will swim round my corpse, and ask,

"Which of us shall devour the body that goes down into the water?"

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die.

I saw in a blaze the house of Pa-Ausoë,

Which he himself had set on fire because he was mata

glap.

If I die in a burning house, glowing embers will fall on my

corpse,

And outside the house there will be many cries of men throwing water on the fire to kill it.

I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die.

I saw the little Si-Oenah fall out of a klappa tree, when he plucked the klappa for his mother.

If I fall out of a klappa tree, I shall lie dead below in the shrubs, like Si-Oenah.

Then my mother will not weep, for she is dead.

But others will say with a loud voice, "See, there lies Saidjah!"

I shall not hear it.

Mata-glap, insane.

Klappa, cocoanut.

I do not know where I shall die.

I have seen the corpse of Pa-Lisoë, who died of old age, for his hairs were white.

If I die of old age, with white hairs, hired women will stand weeping near my corpse,

And they will make lamentations, as did the mourners over Pa-Lisoë's corpse;

And the grandchildren will weep very loud.
I shall not hear it.

I do not know where I shall die.

I have seen at Badoer many that were dead.

They were dressed in white shrouds, and were buried in the earth.

If I die at Badoer, and am buried beyond the village, eastward against the hill where the grass is high,

Then will Adinda pass by there, and the border of her sarong will sweep softly along the grass.

I shall hear it.

EDUARD DOUWES DEKKER.

Translated by Baron ALPHONSE NAHUYS.

A Yukon Cradle-Song.

THE wind blows over the Yukon.

My husband hunts the deer on the Koyukun mountains. Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one.

There is no wood for the fire.

The stone axe is broken, my husband carries the other. Where is the sun-warmth? Hid in the dam of the beaver, waiting the spring-time.

Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not.

Look not for ukali, old woman.

Long since the cache was emptied, and the crow does not

light on the ridge-pole.

Long since my husband departed. Why does he wait in

the mountains?

Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, softly.

Where is my own?

Does he lie starving on the hillside? Why does he linger? Comes he not soon, I will seek him among the mountains. Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, sleep.

The crow has come, laughing.

His beak is red, his eyes glisten, the false one!
"Thanks for a good meal to Kuskokala the shaman.
On the sharp mountain quietly lies your husband."
Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not.

"Twenty deers' tongues tied to the pack on his shoulders; Not a tongue in his mouth to call to his wife with.

Wolves, foxes, and ravens are tearing and fighting for morsels.

Tough and hard are the sinews; not so the child in your bosom."

Ahmi, Ahmi, sleep, little one, wake not.

Over the mountain slowly staggers the hunter.

Two bucks' thighs on his shoulders, with bladders of fat between them.

Twenty deers' tongues in his belt. Go, gather wood, old woman!

Off flew the crow-liar, cheat, and deceiver!

Wake, little sleeper, wake, and call to your father.

He brings you buckfat, marrow, and venison fresh from the mountain.

Tired and worn, he has carved a toy of the deer's horn, While he was sitting and waiting long for the deer on the

hillside.

Wake, and see the crow, hiding himself from the arrow ! Wake, little one, wake, for here is your father.

Translated by W. H. DALL

The Passage.

MANY a year is in its grave,
Since 1 crossed this restless wave;
And the evening, fair as ever,
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.

Then, in this same boat, beside,
Sat two comrades, old and tried;
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.

One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.

So, whene'er I turn my eye
Back upon the days gone by,

Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,
Friends who closed their course before me.

Yet what binds us friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;

Let us walk in soul once more!

WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng,
With love's sweet notes to grace your song,