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I go.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

sun,

arrot's call

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0, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath | O, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss not set ;

Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss, Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my He had kissed another woman even as this, – fancy yet.

It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to To be thus cheated, like a child asleep ; Locksley Hall !

Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

So I built my house upon another's ground;

Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound, Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. heath and holt,

And when that heart grew colder, - colder still, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

1, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil,

Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will,
Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or

All, — anything but him. It was to be
fire or snow;
For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and The full draught others drink up carelessly

Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me.
I say again, - he gives me all I claimed,

I and my children never shall be shamed :
ONLY A WOMAN.

He is a just man, — he will live unblamed.

Only - O God, O God, to cry for bread,
" She loves with love that cannot tire:
And if, ah, woel she loves alone,

And get a stone! Daily to lay my head
Through passionate duty love flames higher,

Upon a bosom where the old love's dead !
As grass grows taller round a stone."
COVENTRY PATMORE.

Dead ? -- Fool! It never lived. It only stirred
So, the truth 's out. I'll grasp ít like a snake,

Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard :
It will not slay me. My heart shall not break

So let me bury it without a word.
Awhile, if only for the children's sake.

He 'll keep that other woman from my sight.
For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed; I know not if her face be foul or bright;
None say, he gave me less than honor claimed,

I only know that it was his delight
Except - one trifle scarcely worth being named-

As his was mine ; I only know he stands
The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands,
be

Then to a flickering smile his lips commands, As easily raised up, breathing,

fair to see, As he could bring his whole heart back to me. Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show.

He need not. When the ship's gone down, I trow,
I never sought him in coquettish sport,

We little reck whatever wind may blow.
Or courted him as silly maidens court,
And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. And so my silent moan begins and ends,

No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of
I only loved him, any woman would :

friends But shut my love up till he came and sued,

Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood.

None knows, -none heeds. I have a little pride; I was so happy I could make him blest !

Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side, So happy that I was his first and best,

With the same smile as when I was his bride. As he mine, - when he took me to his breast.

And I shall take his children to my arms; Ah me! if only then he had been true !

They will not miss these fading, worthless charms; If for one little year, a month or two,

Their kiss -ah! unlike his — all pain disarms.
He had given me love for love, as was my due !

And haply as the solemn years go by,
Or had he told me, ere the deed was done,

He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh,
He only raised me to his heart's dear throne

The other woman was less true than I.
Poor substitute — because the queen was gone! |

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DINAH MARIA MUIOCK.

he sun,

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Sitting by my side,

At my feet,
So he breathed the air I breathed,

Satisfied !
I, too, at love's brim

Touched the sweet.
I would die if death bequeathed

Sweet to him.

ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW.

Speak, - I love thee best ! ”

He exclaimed, “Let thy love my own foretell."

I confessed : “Clasp my heart on thine

Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well

Hangeth mine!”

But Enoch yearned to see her face again ; “If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below : There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable, light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life.

Was it wrong to own,

Being truth?
Why should all the giving prove

His alone ?
I had wealth and ease,

Beauty, youth, -
Since my lover gave me love,

I gave these.
That was all I meant,

To be just,
And the passion I had raised

To content.

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward ; but behind, With one small gate that opened on the waste, Flourished a little garden square and walled : And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it : But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stola

Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence That which he better might have shunned, if

griefs Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnished board Sparkled and shone ; so genial was the hearth; And on the right hand of the hearth he saw Philip, the slighted suitor of old times, Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees; And o'er her second father stoopt a girl, A later but a loftier Annie Lee, Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms, Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed : And on the left hand of the hearth he saw The mother glancing often toward her babe, But turning now and then to speak with him, Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong, And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

New hope may bloom,

And days may coine,
Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream !
O, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As love's young dream !
Though the bard to

purer
fame

may soar, When wild youth 's past; Though he win the wise, who frowned before,

To smile at last ;
He'll never meet

A joy so sweet
In all his noon of fame
As when first he sung to woman's ear

His soul-felt flame,
And at every close she blushed to hear

The one loved name !

Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness, And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love, Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightierthan things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and

feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry, Which in one moment, like the blast of doom, Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

0, that hallowed form is ne'er forgot,

Which first love traced ;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot
On memory's waste !

'T was odor fled

As soon as shed ; 'T was morning's winged dream ; 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again

On life's dull stream ! O, 't was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream !

THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies 2

WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED.

He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

WHEN the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead ;
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not ;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

And there he would have knelt, but that his

knees Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

As music and splendor
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute,
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman's knell.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

O the days are gone when beauty bright

My heart's chain wove! When my dream of life, from morn till night,

Was love, still love !

When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is single
To endure what it once possesst.

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