Resolved, sent for him, and said wildly to him-
"There is no reason why we should not wed.”

*

So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells—
Merrily rang the bells, and they were wed.

After twelve long years, poor old Enoch returns to his native place from his shipwreck and exile on a desert isle; he finds all things changed, and is told of his own death, of his wife's long sorrow, of Philip's friendship, and how that friendship was at last repaid, by a kindly gossip of the village, who can see no trace of Enoch Arden in the bent, gray-haired, worn-out old man who seeks the shelter of her half-ruined roof. Bowed down by unspeakable sadness, one wish only is present to him,-to see her face once again, and "know that she is happy." He yields to the irresistible longing, and from Philip's garden he gains a sight of the comfort and the genial happiness of Philip's hearth :—

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 :—
"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence?
O God Almighty, blessed Saviour! Thou
That didst uphold me on my lonely isle,
Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness

A little longer! Aid me, give me strength
Not to tell her, never to let her know.
Help me not to break in

upon her

peace.

My children too! must I not speak to these?
They know me not. I should betray myself.
Never no father's kiss for me-the girl

So like her mother, and the boy, my son."

It would, indeed, be hard to parallel the homely and tragic pathos of this picture.

Tennyson's muse is characterized by exquisite finish, rich colouring, and dramatic energy. How graceful and delicate is this sketch, from the Day-Dream:

Year after year unto her feet, she lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet the maiden's jet-black hair has grown,
On either side her tranced form forth streaming from a braid of

pearl;

The slumbrous light is rich and warm, and moves not on the rounded curl.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard in palace chambers far

apart;

The fragrant tresses are not stirred that lie upon her charmèd heart.

lak me no

more

may

with

shape.

The cloud may stoop from heaven & tote the
fold to fold, of mountain or of cipe,
Best, O too fond, when have I andwind thee?

Tears, ille tears, I know not what they mean, Seard from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart & gather to the eyes

She sleeps on either side upswells the gold-fringed pillow lightly

pressed;

She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells a perfect form in perfect rest.

*

Take another instance of his power of condensation-that of The Dead Warrior :-

Home they brought her warrior dead: she nor swooned nor uttered cry:

All her maidens, watching, said—" She must weep, or she will die.”
Then they praised him, soft and low, called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe; yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place, lightly to the warrior stepped,
Took the face-cloth from the face; yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years, set his child upon her knee—
Like summer-tempest came her tears-" Sweet my child, I live for

thee."

As a specimen of his grand heroic verse, his Charge of the Light Brigade is an instance too well known to require comment.

R. H. STODDARD, of New York, has contributed many graceful and beautiful lyrics; the following are from his pen :

The wild November comes at last

Beneath a veil of rain;

The night-wind blows its folds aside,
Her face is full of pain.

The latest of her race, she takes

The Autumn's vacant throne:
She has but one short month to live,

And she must live alone.

A barren realm of withered fields;

Bleak woods of fallen leaves;