AS in the gardens, all through May, the rose, Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled, Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows； Graces and Loves within her breast repose, The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose,

    So this, the perfect beauty of our days, When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise, The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes； And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, That dead, as living, she may be with roses. SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.JACQUES TAHUREAU, -.WITHIN the sand of what far river lies The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love？ What highest circle of the Heavens above Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes？ And where is the rich sea whose coral vies With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough？ What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof The fled soul lives in her cheeks' rosy guise？

    What Parian marble that is loveliest, Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast？ When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade？ Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, Gardens, and glades Sabaean, all that be The far-off splendid semblance of my maid！