" Repent, or I will come unto thee quickly, and will fight thee with the sword of my mouth. " — Revelation ii. 16.

I.

Ashkelon is not cut off with the remnant of a valley.
Baldness dwells not upon Gaza.
The field of the valley is mine, and it is clothed in verdure.
The steepness of Baal-perazim is mine;
And the Philistines spread themselves in the valley of Rephaim.

1

As yung Awrora with cristall haile
In orient schew hir visage paile,
A swewyng swyth did me assaile
Off sonis of Sathanis seid.
Me thocht a Turk of Tartary
Come throw the boundis of Barbary
And lay forloppin in Lumbardy
Full lang in waithman weid.

2

Fra baptasing for to eschew,
Thair a religious man he slew
And cled him in his abeit new,
For he cowth wryte and reid.
Quhen kend was his dissimvlance
And all his cursit govirnance,

BY LI T'AI-PO

The mist is thick. On the wide river, the water-plants float smoothly.
No letters come; none go.
There is only the moon, shining through the clouds of a hard, jade-green sky,
Looking down at us so far divided, so anxiously apart.
All day, going about my affairs, I suffer and grieve, and press the thought of you closely to my heart.
My eyebrows are locked in sorrow, I cannot separate them.
Nightly, nightly, I keep ready half the quilt,
And wait for the return of that divine dream which is my Lord.

High Heaven is insecure.
Give me my paradise while these warm arms endure.
Come, my Love! let us walk in this brake.
Where I can see you sleep, and watch you wake.
So much of pleasure, for Mortality's poor sake.

As women of our race we have the odds to face
In battling for our rights;
But we will take it for our share,
Never murmur, never fear,
Through God we will win the fight.

God is opening doors for us,
And bids us enter in and be his guest
In many a walk of life
That was closed to us through strife
By the more favored race.

Now we may win the fight by being loyal,
By training minds and hands,
As mothers of this land
To show their grit and sand
By working hard.

Then we will demand a place
Side by side with any race

 besides her miraculous cures
filling a bath and turning a mill

As wishing all about us sweet,
She brims her bath in cold or heat;
She lends, in aid of work and will,
Her hand from heaven to turn a mill—
Sweet soul! not scorning honest sweat
And favouring virgin freshness yet.

On Wood the Patentee's Irish Halfpence

As, when the squire and tinker, Wood,
Gravely consulting Ireland's good,
Together mingled in a mass
Smith's dust, and copper, lead and brass;
The mixture thus by chemic art,
United close in every part,
In fillets rolled, or cut in pieces,
Appeared like one continuous species,
And by the forming engine struck,
On all the same impression stuck.

So, to confound this hated coin,
All parties and religions join;
Whigs, Tories, trimmers, Hanovenans,

As when into the garden paths by night
One bears a lamp, and with its sickly glare
Scatters the burnished flowers a-dreaming there,
Palely they show like spectres in his sight,
Lovely no more, disfurnished of delight,
Some folded up and drooping o'er the way,
Their odours spent, their colour changed to gray,
Some that stood queen-like in the morning light
Fallen discrowned: so the low-burning loves
That tremble in the hearts of aged men
Cast their own light upon the world that moves
Around them, and receive it back again.

PROLOGUE

A S , when a tree 's cut down, the secret root
Lives under ground, and thence new branches shoot;
So from old Shakespeare's honor'd dust, this day
Springs up and buds a new reviving play:
Shakespeare, who (taught by none) did first impart
To Fletcher wit, to laboring Jonson art.
He, monarch-like, gave those, his subjects, law;
And is that nature which they paint and draw.
Fletcher reach'd that which on his heights did grow,
Whilst Jonson crept, and gather'd all below.
This did his love, and this his mirth digest;

As, when a beauteous nymph decays,
We say, she's past her dancing days;
So, poets lose their feet by time,
And can no longer dance in rhyme.
Your annual bard had rather chose
To celebrate your birth in prose;
Yet, merry folks, who want by chance
A pair to make a country dance,
Call the old housekeeper, and get her
To fill a place, for want of better;
While Sheridan is off the hooks,
And friend Delany at his books,
That Stella may avoid disgrace,
Once more the Dean supplies their place.

Beauty and wit, too sad a truth,