IN light of sunrise and sunsetting, The long days lingered, in forgetting That ever passion, keen to hold What may not tarry, was of old, In lands beyond the weary wold; Beyond the bitter stream whose flood Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood. Was beauty once a thing that died? Was pleasure never satisfied? Was rest still broken by the vain Desire of action, bringing pain, To die in languid rest again? All this was quite forgotten there, Where never winter chilled the year, Nor spring brought promise unfulfilled, Nor, with the eager summer killed, The languid days drooped autumnwards. So magical a season guards The constant prime of a cool June; So slumbrous is the river’s tune, That knows no thunder of heavy rains, Nor ever in the summer wanes, Like waters of the summer time In lands far from the Fairy clime. Yea, there the Fairy maids are kind, With nothing of the changeful mind Of maidens in the days that were; And if no laughter fills the air With sound of silver murmurings, And if no prayer of passion brings A love nigh dead to life again, Yet sighs more subtly sweet remain, And smiles that never satiate, And loves that fear scarce any fate. Alas, no words can bring the bloom Of Fairy Land; the faint perfume, The sweet low light, the magic air, To eyes of who has not been there: Alas, no words, nor any spell Can lull the eyes that know too well, The lost fair world of Fairy Land. Ah, would that I had never been The lover of the Fairy Queen! Or would that through the sleepy town, The grey old place of Ercildoune, And all along the little street, The soft fall of the white deer’s feet Came, with the mystical command That I must back to Fairy Land! TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS. ‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deuil de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desespoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupé de leur musique est la Mort.’—PONTUS DE TYARD. 1570. * * * * * I.