Faithful if this wan image be,

No dream his life was, but a fight; Could any Beatrice see

A lover in that anchorite?

To that cold Ghibeline's gloomy sight
Who could have guessed the visions came
Of beauty, veiled with heavenly light,
In circles of eternal flame?

The lips as Cuma's cavern close,

The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,

The rigid front, almost morose,

But for the patient hope within, Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe; Which, through the wavering days of sin, Kept itself icy-chaste and clear.

Peace dwells not here-this rugged face
Betrays no spirit of repose;

The sullen warrior sole we trace,

The marble man of many woes.

Such was his mien when first arose

The thought of that strange tale divine, When hell he peopled with his foes, The scourge of many a guilty line.

BALLAD OF OLD TIME LADIES.

BY FRANCOIS VILLON.

This ballad, of which we give Dante Gabriel Rossetti's translation, was written by Villon in 1450. There are many translations of the poems of that beggar, poet, thief-that first lucid poet of France. Andrew Lang has interpreted him in one way, John Payne in another. The following translation is, perhaps, the happiest of this particular poem, though the ballad cannot but lose some of its spirit in an English rendering.

Tell me, now, in what hidden way is
Lady Flora the lovely Roman?
Where's Hipparchia, and where is Thais-
Neither of them the fairer woman?
Where is Echo, beheld of no man,

Only heard on river and mere

She whose beauty was more than human?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Where's Heloise, the learned nun,
For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,
Lost manhood and put priesthood on?
(From love he won such dule and teen!)
And where, I pray you, is the Queen

Who willed that Buridan should steer,
Sewed in a sack's mouth, down the Seine?
But where are the snows of yesteryear?

White Queen Blanche, like a queen of lilies,
With a voice like any mermaiden-
Bertha Broadfoot, Beatrice, Alice,

And Ermengarde, the lady of the Maine-
And that good Joan, whom Englishmen
At Rouen doomed, and burned her there-
Mother of God, where are they, then?

But where are the snows of yesteryear?

Nay, never ask this week, fair lord,
Where they are gone, nor yet this year,
Except with this for an overword-

But where are the snows of yesteryear?

SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN.

BY ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

Mr. Hawker was a clergyman, born at Plymouth, England, in 1804, and died there in 1875. He was educated at Oxford and became a noted figure in the church. He was a stalwart and heroic character. In 1834 he became vicar of a lonely parish on the Cornwall coast. His "Echoes From Old Cornwall" appeared in 1845; "Cornish Ballads" in 1869. Shortly before his death he joined the Roman Catholic Church.

A good sword and a trusty hand!

And merry heart and true!
King James' men shall understand

What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when?

And shall Trelawney die?

Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why!

Out spake their Captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he;

"If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We'll set Trelawney free!

"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,

The Severn is no stay;

With 'one and all' and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay?

"And when we come to London Wall,

A pleasant sight to view,

Come forth! Come forth, ye cowards all,

Here's men as good as you!

"Trelawney he's in keep and hold,
Trelawney he may die;

But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold,
Will know the reason why!"

Mrs. Meynell is considered by many critics as the most elegant poet in England at this present time. She has written, besides several voluraes of verse, two or three books of essays: "The Color of Life," "The Rhythm of Life," and "The Children."

She walks the lady of my delight

A shepherdess of sheep.

Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white;

She guards them from the steep.

She feeds them on the fragrant height,

And folds them in for sleep.

She roams maternal hills and bright,

Dark valleys safe and deep.

Into her tender breast at night

The chastest stars may peep.

She walks-the lady of my delight-
A shepherdess of sheep.

She holds her little thoughts in sight,
Though gay they run and leap.
She is so circumspect and right;
She has her soul to keep.

She walks-the lady of my delight-
A shepherdess of sheep.

INVICTUS.

BY W. E. HENLEY.

William Ernest Henley was born in England about 1850. In 1888 he became editor of the Scots Observer, and in the same year published his first volume of poems-"A Book of Verses." He is a writer and a critic as well as a poet.

It matters not how straight the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate;

I am the captain of my soul.