N THE hill-side, yonder where are the graves,

ON

A fine palm-tree, like a green plume,

Stands with head erect; in the evening the doves
Come to nestle under its cover.

But in the morning they leave the branches;
Like a spreading necklace, they may be seen
Scattering in the blue air, perfectly white,
And settling farther upon some roof.

My soul is the tree where every eve, as they,
White swarms of mad visions

Fall from heaven, with fluttering wings,
To fly away with the first rays.

S

THE POT OF FLOWERS

OMETIMES a child finds a small seed,

And at once, delighted with its bright colors,
To plant it he takes a porcelain jar

Adorned with blue dragons and strange flowers.

He goes away. The root, snake-like, stretches,
Breaks through the earth, blooms, becomes a shrub;
Each day, farther down, it sinks its fibrous foot,
Until it bursts the sides of the vessel.

The child returns: surprised, he sees the rich plant
Over the vase's débris brandishing its green spikes;
He wants to pull it out, but the stem is stubborn.

The child persists, and tears his fingers with the pointed

arrows.

Thus grew love in my simple heart;

I believed I sowed but a spring flower;
'Tis a large aloe, whose root breaks
The porcelain vase with the brilliant figures.

PRAYER

SA guardian angel, take me under your wing;
Deign to stoop and put out, smiling,

A$

Your maternal hand to my little hand

To support my steps and keep me from falling!

For Jesus the sweet Master, with celestial love,
Suffered little children to come to him;

As an indulgent parent, he submitted to their caresses
And played with them without showing weariness.

O you who resemble those church pictures

Where one sees, on a gold background, august Charity
Preserving from hunger, preserving from cold,

A fair and smiling group sheltered in her folds;

Like the nursling of the Divine mother,

For pity's sake, lift me to your lap;

Protect me, poor young girl, alone, an orphan,

Whose only hope is in God, whose only hope is in you!

Ο

THE POET AND THE CROWD

NE day the plain said to the idle mountain:

Nothing ever grows upon thy wind-beaten brow! To the poet, bending thoughtful over his lyre, The crowd also said:- Dreamer, of what use art thou?

-

Full of wrath, the mountain answered the plain:-
It is I who make the harvests grow upon thy soil;

I temper the breath of the noon sun,

I stop in the skies the clouds as they fly by.

With my fingers I knead the snow into avalanches,
In my crucible I dissolve the crystals of glaciers,
And I pour out, from the tip of my white breasts,
In iong silver threads, the nourishing streams.

The poet, in his turn, answered the crowd:
:-
Allow my pale brow to rest upon my hand.

Have I not from my side, from which runs out my soul,
Made a spring gush to slake men's thirst?

March that laughs, in spite of showers,
Quietly gets Spring ready.

For the little daisies,
Slyly, when all sleep,
He irons little collars

And chisels gold studs.

Through the orchard and the vineyard,

He goes, cunning hair-dresser,

With a swan-puff,

And powders snow-white the almond-tree,

Nature rests in her bed;

He goes down to the garden

And laces the rosebuds

In their green velvet corsets.

While composing solfeggios

That he sings in a low tone to the blackbirds,
He strews the meadows with snowdrops
And the woods with violets.

By the side of the cress in the brook
Where drinks the stag, with listening ear,
With his concealed hand he scatters

The silver bells of the lilies of the valley.

Then, when his work is done

And his reign about to end,

On the threshold of April, turning his head,
He says, Spring, you may come!

If their joints are stiff, it is because on the battle-field

Flags were their only blankets;

And if their sleeves don't fit,

It is because a cannon-ball took off their arm.

JOHN GAY

(1685-1732)

N THE great society of the wits," said Thackeray, "John Gay deserves to be a favorite, and to have a good place." The wits loved him. Prior, was his faithful ally; Pope wrote him frequent letters of affectionate good advice; Swift grew genial in his merry company; and when the jester lapsed into gloom, as jesters will, all his friends hurried to coddle and comfort him. His verse is not of the first order, but the list of "English classics" contains far poorer; it is entertaining enough to be a pleasure even to bright children of this generation, and each succeeding one reads it with an inherited fondness not by any means without help from its own merits. And the man who invented comic opera, one of the most enduring molds in which English humor has been cast, deserves the credit of all important literary pioneers.

JOHN GAY

Kind, lazy, clever John Gay came of a good, impoverished Devonshire family, which seems to have done its best for the bright lad of twelve when it apprenticed him to a London silk mercer. The boy hated this employment, grew ill under its fret and confinement, went back to the country, studied, possibly wrote poor verses, and presently drifted back to London. The cleverest men of the time frequented the crowded taverns and coffee-houses, and the talk that he heard at Will's and Button's may have determined his profession. Thither came Pope and Addison, Swift and Steele, Congreve, St. John, Prior, Arbuthnot, Cibber, Hogarth, Walpole, and many a powerful patron who loved good company.

Perhaps through some kind acquaintance made in this informal circle, Gay obtained a private secretaryship, and began the flirtation with the Muse which became serious only after some years of coldness on that humorous lady's part. His first poem, Wine,' published when he was twenty-three, is not included in his collected works: perhaps because it is written in blank verse; perhaps because his maturer taste condemned it. Three years later, in 1711, when the success of the Spectator was yet new, and Pope had just completed