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Strange Isle of Voices! must we ask in vain,
In vain beseech and win no answering word,
Save mocking echoes of our lonely pain
From lonely hill and bird?

Island beneath whose unrelenting coast,
As though it never in the sun had been,

The whole world's treasure lieth sunk and lost,
Unsunned, unseen.

For, either sunk beyond the diver's skill,

There, fathoms deep, our gold is all arust,
Or in that island it is hoarded still.
Yea, some have said, within thy dreadful wall
There is a folk that know not death at all,
The loved we lost, the lost we love, are there.
Will no kind voice make answer to our cry,
Give to our aching hearts some little trust,
Show how 'tis good to live, but best to die?
Some voice that knows

Whither the dead man goes:

We hear his music from the other side,

Maybe a little tapping on the door,

A something called, a something sighed—
No more.

O for some voice to valiantly declare
The best news true!

Then, Happy Island of the Happy Dead,

How gladly would we spread
Impatient sail for you.

Richard Le Gallienne.



Mysticas adsueta sonare voces insula, an vana prece te rogamus ? sola nos solos fulicae et iugorum ludit imago,

mergitur saevam prope cuius oram maximi thesaurus opertus orbis, ceu prius nunquam nituisset almi luce diei?

forsan exedit situs in barathro, quo maris scrutator adire nescit, forsan et nostram vel adhuc recondit insula gazam.

prisca (sic narrant) ibi gens superstes, quos amor raptos memorat fovetque, fertur horrendum superasse limen funeris expers.

nulla vox responsa dabit querenti et
cordis angorem minuens docebit,
vita sit quamvis pretiosa, quantum
praestet obire ?

ede quo ducat via mortuorum; longius fractum melos auguramur; ianuam pulsat digitus, monemur voce gementis.

summa quis demum bona prodet audax nuntius? sic te studio petendi vela solvamus cupidi, beatorum

insula felix!


Should fickle hands in far-off days
No longer stroke thy hair

And lips that once were proud to praise
Forget to call thee fair,

Sigh but my name, and though I be
Mute in the church-yard mould,
I will arise and come to thee
And worship as of old.

And should I meet the wrinkled brow
Or find the silvered tress,

What wer't to me? it would be thou,
I could not love thee less.

'Gainst love time wages bootless strife,
What now is, would be then ;
The cry that brought me back to life
Would make thee young again.

A. Austin.


The carven pillars of the trees,
The flowered mosaic of the grass,
The green transparent traceries
Of leaf on leaf that lightly lies,

And lightly moves, when breezes pass.
The anthem of the waterfall,

My chorister the black-bird's lay;
And mingling with, suffusing all,
Borne by the wind, and still let fall,
The incense of the new-made hay.
This is my Church, my altar here,
Here Earth, the kindly mother kneels,
Her mighty hands outspread in prayer,
While o'er her brows the sunny air
A south wind full of blessings steals
She wraps me in her mantle fold;
I kneel and pray beside her knee,
As children do whom mothers hold,
And living air and sunlight gold,
And wood and meadow pray with me.

D. Owen.



Si tempore effluente, perfidae manus
mulcere desinant comas,

nec labra curent te vocare candidam,
quis laus erat laudi tua,
suspirio me, vel iacentem gramine,
mutum sepulcrali cie,

surgam, tuosque provolutus ad pedes
votis, ut ante, prosequar.

quod si severis aridam rugis cutem,
canamque praetendas comam,
nil me morentur ista, te visam semel
amare nesciam minus.

infestum Amori Tempus incassum furit:
quod est, in aeternum manet;
querella, vitam quae redonabat mihi,
reddat iuventam Celiae.


E. D. S.


Surgit pro sectis incaedua silva columnis,
picta pavimentum floribus herba facit.

et variant teretes folia in se texta fenestras,
quae vento leviter praetereunte tremunt.
sacra canit mihi lympha cadens: intercinit acris
vox merulae: desunt nec sua tura loco.
nam bene mista solo, Zephyroque adflata tepenti,
quae modo succidit gramina messor, olent.
hic aedes, hic ara mea est: hic Terra videtur
magna Parens flexo fundere vota genu;
hic passas, frontem placidam dum blanda serenat
aura Noti donis feta, levare manus.
mater uti puerum patulo me involvit amictu,

hanc prope summisso flector et ipse genu; spirantesque austri, sol aureus, et nemus atrum addunt se precibus ruraque laeta meis.

R 2



If she but knew that I am weeping
Still for her sake,

That love or sorrow grow with keeping
Till they must break,

My heart that breaking will adore her,
Be hers and die:

If she might hear me once implore her,
Would she not sigh?

If she but knew that it would save me
Her voice to hear,

Saying she pitied me, forgave me,
Must she forbear?

If she were told that I were dying,
Would she be dumb?

Could she content herself with sighing?
Would she not come?

A. O'Shaughnessy.



She loved the Autumn, I the Spring,
Sad all the songs she loved to sing;
And in her face was strangely set
Some great inherited regret.

Some look in all things made her sigh,
Yea! sad to her the morning sky;
"So sad! so sad its beauty seems
I hear her say it still in dreams.

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But when the day grew grey and old,
And rising stars shone strange and cold,
Then only in her face I saw
A mystic glee, a joyous awe.

Spirit of Sadness, in the spheres
Is there an end of mortal tears?
Or is there still in those great eyes
That look of lonely hills and skies?

Richard Le Gallienne.

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