Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!

Simætha calls on Hecate

And hears the wild dogs at the gate:
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea

Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate:
O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry

Young Daphnis challenges his mate:
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,

For thee the jocund shepherds wait,

O singer of Persephone!

Dost thou remember Sicily?

Oscar Wilde [1856-1900]

AVE ATQUE VALE

IN MEMORIAM ARTHUR UPSON

[1877-1908]

I

You found the green before the Spring was sweet
And in the boughs the color of a rose,

The haunting fragrance that the south-wind knows
When May has wandered far on questing feet;
And in your heart-a wild note, full and fleet,

The first cry of a gladdened bird that goes
North to the fields of winter-laden snows,
Joyous against the blast and stinging sleet.

And now the Spring is here, the snows are gone,
The apple-blossoms fall from every tree

And all the branches throb with love and Spring;
But never comes one note to greet the dawn,
Never again a wild-glad melody-

God speed, great soul, your valiant wandering!

For one soft note persuasive did command

All other tones that reached my quickened ear,
And in that note a message low and clear
That I so plainly seemed to understand.

As in the saddened passing of fair things,

The sorrow of the sunset and the dawn,

For death that comes when life's hour least should fail

Ever the moment's hush of lifted wings,

...

A gleam of wonder ere the flood is gone.
The host uncovered from its mortal veil!

V

October almost holds her golden sway

Across these hills and through the slopes between,

As if for you some sacrament unseen

Were now unfolded in a silent way,

As if for you pale memory astray

Had touched each spot of misted summer green, And in the coolness where the shadows lean Had whispered of a cherished yesterday.

For one to whom you gave your youth's full praise
Now takes you back into her hallowed rest
With all the loveliness that is your due,

Yielding the precious beauty of her days
To your deep sleep upon her tranquil breast,-
Giving you back her deathless love of you!
Thomas S. Jones, Jr. [1882-

THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS
THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON, 1769-1852]

A MIST was driving down the British Channel,
The day was just begun,

And through the window-panes, on floor and panel,
Streamed the red autumn sun.