SING WITH THE BIRDS 



You may not know the secret tongue aright 

 The Sunbeams on their rosy tablets write; 

 Only a poet may perchance translate 

 Those ruby-tinted hieroglyphs of light. 



MATHILDE BLIND. 



(On Reading the " Rubaiyat of Omar Khay- 

 yam") 



A Garden Song 



Here, in this sequestered close 

 Blown the hyacinth and the rose; 

 Here beside the modest stock 

 Flaunts the flowing holly-hock; 

 Here, without a pang, one sees 

 Ranks, conditions and degrees. 



All the seasons run their race 

 In this quiet resting-place; 

 Peach, and apricot, and fig 

 Here will ripen, and grow big; 

 Here is store and overplus, 

 More had not Alcinoiis! 



[177] 



