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!

APRIL.

Remy Belleau, 1560.

April, pride of woodland ways, Of glad days, April, bringing hope of prime, To the young flowers that beneath Their bud sheath Are guarded in their tender time;April, pride of fields that be Green and free, That in fashion glad and gay, Stud with flowers red and blue, Every hue, Their jewelled spring array;April, pride of murmuring Winds of spring, That beneath the winnowed air, Trap with subtle nets and sweet Flora's feet, Flora's feet, the fleet and fair;April, by thy hand caressed, From her breast, Nature scatters everywhere Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, Buds and blooms, Making faint the earth and air.

April, joy of the green hours, Clothes with flowers Over all her locks of gold My sweet Lady; and her breast With the blest Buds of summer manifold.

April, with thy gracious wiles, Like the smiles, Smiles of Venus; and thy breath Like her breath, the gods' delight, (From their height They take the happy air beneath;)It is thou that, of thy grace, From their place In the far-off isles dost bring Swallows over earth and sea, Glad to be Messengers of thee, and Spring.

Daffodil and eglantine, And woodbine, Lily, violet, and rose Plentiful in April fair, To the air, Their pretty petals to unclose.

Nightingales ye now may hear, Piercing clear, Singing in the deepest shade;Many and many a babbled note Chime and float, Woodland music through the glade.

April, all to welcome thee, Spring sets free Ancient flames, and with low breath Wakes the ashes grey and old That the cold Chilled within our hearts to death.

Thou beholdest in the warm Hours, the swarm Of the thievish bees, that flies Evermore from bloom to bloom For perfume, Hid away in tiny thighs.

Her cool shadows May can boast, Fruits almost Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, That complete Her flower garland fresh and new.

Nay, but I will give my praise To these days, Named with the glad name of Her That from out the foam o' the sea Came to be Sudden light on earth and air.