ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW.

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.

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 stole

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.

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 mightier than 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.

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.

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.

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!

"T was I that beat the bush, The birds to others flew, For she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo.

If ever that Dame Nature,
For this false lover's sake,
Another pleasing creature

Like unto her would make; Let her remember this,

To make the other true,
For this, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

No riches now can raise me,
No want makes me despair,
No misery amaze me,

Nor yet for want I care;

I have lost a world itself,
My earthly heaven, adieu !
Since she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.