And round that early-laurelled head Will flock to gaze the strengthless dead, And find unwithered on its curls The garland briefer than a girl's.

"LOVELIEST OF TREES"

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now Is hung with bloom along the bough, And stands about the woodland ride Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten, Twenty will not come again, And take from seventy springs a score, It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom Fifty springs are little room, About the woodlands I will go To see the cherry hung with snow.

_Douglas Hyde_

Doctor Douglas Hyde was born in Roscommon County, Ireland in, as nearly as can be ascertained, 1860. One of the most brilliant Irish scholars of his day, he has worked indefatigably for the cause of his native letters. He has written a comprehensive history of Irish literature; has compiled, edited and translated into English the _Love Songs of Connaught_; is President of The Irish National Literary Society; and is the author of innumerable poems in Gaelic--far more than he ever wrote in English. His collections of Irish folk-lore and poetry were among the most notable contributions to the Celtic revival; they were (see Preface), to a large extent, responsible for it. Since 1909 he has been Professor of Modern Irish in University College, Dublin.

The poem which is here quoted is one of his many brilliant and reanimating translations. In its music and its peculiar rhyme-scheme, it reproduces the peculiar flavor as well as the meter of the West Irish original.

I SHALL NOT DIE FOR THEE

For thee, I shall not die, Woman of high fame and name; Foolish men thou mayest slay I and they are not the same.

Why should I expire For the fire of an eye, Slender waist or swan-like limb, Is't for them that I should die?

The round b.r.e.a.s.t.s, the fresh skin, Cheeks crimson, hair so long and rich; Indeed, indeed, I shall not die, Please G.o.d, not I, for any such.

The golden hair, the forehead thin, The chaste mien, the gracious ease, The rounded heel, the languid tone,-- Fools alone find death from these.

Thy sharp wit, thy perfect calm, Thy thin palm like foam o' the sea; Thy white neck, thy blue eye, I shall not die for thee.

Woman, graceful as the swan, A wise man did nurture me.

Little palm, white neck, bright eye, I shall not die for ye.

_Amy Levy_

Amy Levy, a singularly gifted Jewess, was born at Clapham, in 1861. A fiery young poet, she burdened her own intensity with the sorrows of her race. She wrote one novel, _Reuben Sachs_, and two volumes of poetry--the more distinctive of the two being half-pathetically and half-ironically ent.i.tled _A Minor Poet_ (1884). After several years of brooding introspection, she committed suicide in 1889 at the age of 28.

EPITAPH

(_On a commonplace person who died in bed_)

This is the end of him, here he lies: The dust in his throat, the worm in his eyes, The mould in his mouth, the turf on his breast; This is the end of him, this is best.

He will never lie on his couch awake, Wide-eyed, tearless, till dim daybreak.

Never again will he smile and smile When his heart is breaking all the while.

He will never stretch out his hands in vain Groping and groping--never again.

Never ask for bread, get a stone instead, Never pretend that the stone is bread; Nor sway and sway 'twixt the false and true, Weighing and noting the long hours through.

Never ache and ache with the choked-up sighs; This is the end of him, here he lies.

IN THE MILE END ROAD

How like her! But 'tis she herself, Comes up the crowded street, How little did I think, the morn, My only love to meet!

Who else that motion and that mien?

Whose else that airy tread?

For one strange moment I forgot My only love was dead.

_Katharine Tynan Hinkson_

Katharine Tynan was born at Dublin in 1861, and educated at the Convent of St. Catherine at Drogheda. She married Henry Hinkson, a lawyer and author, in 1893. Her poetry is largely actuated by religious themes, and much of her verse is devotional and yet distinctive. In _New Poems_ (1911) she is at her best; graceful, meditative and with occasional notes of deep pathos.

SHEEP AND LAMBS

All in the April morning, April airs were abroad; The sheep with their little lambs Pa.s.s'd me by on the road.

The sheep with their little lambs Pa.s.s'd me by on the road; All in an April evening I thought on the Lamb of G.o.d.

The lambs were weary, and crying With a weak human cry; I thought on the Lamb of G.o.d Going meekly to die.

Up in the blue, blue mountains Dewy pastures are sweet: Rest for the little bodies, Rest for the little feet.

Rest for the Lamb of G.o.d Up on the hill-top green; Only a cross of shame Two stark crosses between.

All in the April evening, April airs were abroad; I saw the sheep with their lambs, And thought on the Lamb of G.o.d.

ALL-SOULS

The door of Heaven is on the latch To-night, and many a one is fain To go home for one's night's watch With his love again.

Oh, where the father and mother sit There's a drift of dead leaves at the door Like pitter-patter of little feet That come no more.

Their thoughts are in the night and cold, Their tears are heavier than the clay, But who is this at the threshold So young and gay?

They are come from the land o' the young, They have forgotten how to weep; Words of comfort on the tongue, And a kiss to keep.