Made green, and trimmed with trees: see how
Devotion gives each house a bough

Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this,
An ark, a tabernacle is

Made up of white thorn neatly interwove;
As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Can such delights be in the street,
And open fields, and we not see't?
Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey
The proclamation made for May:

And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

There's not a budding boy, or girl, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.

A deal of youth, ere this, is come

Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
Some have dispatched their cakes and cream,
Before that we have left to dream:

And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green gown has been given;

Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance, too, has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament:

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks picked: - yet we're not a Maying.

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time!

We shall grow old apace, and die

Before we know our liberty.

Our life is short; and our days run
As fast away as does the sun:
And as a vapor, or a drop of rain
Once lost, can ne'er be found again:
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
All love, all liking, all delight

Lies drowned with us in endless night.

Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,

Come, my Corinna! come, let's go a Maying.

TO LAURELS.

A funeral stone

Or verse I covet none,

But only crave

Of you, that I may have

A sacred laurel springing from my grave;
Which being seen

Blest with perpetual green,
May grow to be

Not so much called a tree

As the eternal monument of me.

TO BLOSSOMS.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,
Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,
But you may stay here yet awhile
To blush and gently smile,
And go at last.

What, were ye born to be

An hour or half's delight,
And so to bid good night?
'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth
Merely to show your worth,
And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we

May read how soon things have
Their end, though ne'er so brave:
And after they have shown their pride
Like you, awhile, they glide
Into the grave.

TO THE VIRGINS TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME.

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,

Old time is still a flying;

And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer: But being spent the worse and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may forever tarry.

THE CROWD AND COMPANY.

In holy meetings, there a man may be
One of the crowd, not of the company.

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthralls the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusèdly;

A winning wave, deserving note,

In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe string, in whose tie

I see a wild civility;

Do more bewitch me, than when art

Is too precise in every part.

TO DAFFODILS.

Fair Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon:

MUSIC.

The mellow touch of music most doth wound
The soul, when it doth rather sigh than sound.

ONLY TO LIVE BY HIS BEST.

Julia, if I chance to die
Ere I print my poetry:
I most humbly thee desire
To commit it to the fire:
Better 'twere my book were dead
Than to live not perfected.

GRACE FOR A CHILD.

Here, a little child, I stand,
Heaving up my either hand:
Cold as paddocks though they be,
Here I lift them up to thee,

For a benison to fall

On our meat, and on our all. Amen.

WITH FIRE AND SWORD.1

BY HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ.

[HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ, the foremost living Polish novelist, was born of Lithuanian parents at Vola Okrzejska in the Lukowschen, in 1846. After pursuing his studies at the University of Warsaw, he adopted a wandering existence, and in 1876 proceeded to America, where he spent considerable time in southern California, and wrote for the Warsaw papers numerous stories and impressions of travel. He subsequently returned to Poland, and took up literature as a profession. Nearly all of his works have been translated into English, and enjoy great popularity in the United States and England. The most important are: "Children of the Soil"; "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge," and "Pan Michael," forming a trilogy of historical novels; "Quo Vadis," a tale of the time of Nero; "Yanko the Musician" "; "Without Dogma "Hania."]

THE DEATH OF THE TRAITORS.

Ar the house of the inspector of weights and measures, in the outskirts of Hassan Pasha, at the Saitch, sat two Zaporo1 Copyright by Little, Brown & Co.