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He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us, and we had ease;
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world.

Ah! since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force;
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel;
Others will strengthen us to bear —
But who, ah! who, will make us feel?
The cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly-
But who, like him, will put it by?
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.

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Yes, only four!—and not the course
Of all the centuries yet to come,
And not the infinite resource
Of Nature, with her countless sum

Of figures, with her fulness vast
Of new creation evermore,
Can ever quite repeat the past,
Or just thy little self restore.

Stern law of every mortal lot!
Which man, proud man, finds hard to
bear,

And builds himself I know not what
Of second life I know not where.

But thou, when struck thine hour to go,
On us, who stood despondent by,
A meek last glance of love didst throw,
And humbly lay thee down to die.

Yet would we keep thee in our heart -
Would fix our favorite on the scene,
Nor let thee utterly depart

And be as if thou ne'er hadst been.

And so there rise these lines of verse
On lips that rarely form them now;
While to each other we rehearse :
Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou!

We stroke thy broad brown paws again,
We bid thee to thy vacant chair,
We greet thee by the window-pane,
We hear thy scuffle on the stair.

We see the flaps of thy large ears
Quick rais'd to ask which way we go;
Crossing the frozen lake, appears
Thy small black figure on the snow!

Nor to us only art thou dear
Who mourn thee in thine English home;
Thou hast thine absent master's tear,
Dropp'd by the far Australian foam.

Thy memory lasts both here and there,
And thou shalt live as long as we.
And after that thou dost not care!
In us was all the world to thee.

Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame,
Even to a date beyond our own
We strive to carry down thy name,

What, was four years their whole short day? By mounded turf, and graven stone.

1 Sunt lacrima rerum !

We lay thee, close within our reach,
Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,
Between the holly and the beech,
Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,

Asleep, yet lending half an ear

To travellers on the Portsmouth road; There build we thee, O guardian dear, Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode !

Then some, who through this garden pass,
When we too, like thyself, are clay,
Shall see thy grave upon the grass,
And stop before the stone, and say:

People who lived here long ago
Did by this stone, it seems, intend
To name for future times to know
The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.

Charles Kent

POPE AT TWICKENHAM BEYOND a hundred years and more, A garden lattice like a door Stands open in the sun, Admitting fitful winds that set Astir the fragrant mignonette In waves of speckled dun:

Sweet waves, above whose odorous flow Red roses bud, red roses blow,

In beds that gem the lawn Enamell'd rings and stars of flowers, By summer beams and vernal showers From earth nutritious drawn.

Within the broad bay-window, there,
Lo! huddled in his easy-chair,

One hand upon his knee,
A hand so thin, so wan, so frail,
It tells of pains and griefs a tale,
A small bent form I see.

The day is fair, the hour is noon,
From neighboring thicket thrills the boon
The nuthatch yields in song:

All drench'd with recent rains, the leaves
Are dripping - drip the sheltering eaves,
The dropping notes among.

And twinkling diamonds in the grass
Show where the flitting zephyrs pass,
That shake the green blades dry;
And golden radiance fills the air
And gilds the floating gossamer
That glints and trembles by.

Yet, blind to each familiar grace,
Strange anguish on his pallid face,
And eyes of dreamful hue,

That lonely man sits brooding there, Still huddled in his easy-chair,

With memories life will rue.

Where bay might crown that honor'd head,

A homely crumpled nightcap spread
Half veils the care worn brows;
In morning-gown of rare brocade
His puny shrunken shape array'd
His sorrowing soul avows:

Avows in every dropping line
Dejection words not thus define
So eloquent of woe;

Yet never to those mournful eyes,
The heart's full-brimming fountains, rise
Sweet tears to overflow.

No token here of studied grief,
But plainest signs that win belief,

A simple scene and true.
Beside the mourner's chair display'd,
The matin meal's slight comforts laid
Trimly the board bestrew.

'Mid silvery sheen of burnish'd plate, The chill'd and tarnish'd chocolate

On snow-white damask stands ;
Untouch'd the trivial lures remain
In dainty pink-tinged porcelain,
Still ranged by usual hands.

A drowsy bee above the cream
Hums loitering in the sunny gleam
That tips each rim with gold;
A checker'd maze of light and gloom
Floats in the quaintly-litter'd room
With varying charms untold.

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I know not which began to range
Since we were never constant ;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.

But this I know, the God of Love

Doth shake his hand against us, And scorning says we ne'er did prove True passion- but pretences.

THE MASTER-CHORD

LIKE a musician that with flying finger Startles the voice of some new instrument, And, though he know that in one string are blent

All its extremes of sound, yet still doth linger

Among the lighter threads, fearing to start The deep soul of that one melodious wire, Lest it, unanswering, dash his high desire,

And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart; Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I Stir every lighter theme with careless voice, Gathering sweet music and celestial joys From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly; Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover, And dare not stoop, fearing to tell - I love her.

EARTH

SAD is my lot; among the shining spheres Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night, And ever, in my never-ending flight,

Add woes to woes, and count up tears on tears.

Young wives' and new-born infants' hapless biers

Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight;
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light;
Pain and remorse and want fill up my years.
My happier children's farther-piercing eyes
Into the blessed solvent future climb,
And knit the threads of joy and hope and
warning;

But I, the ancient mother, am not wise,
And, shut within the blind obscure of time,
Roll on from morn to night, and on from
night to morning.

William Johnson Corp

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife,
Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
But sweet, sweet is this human life,
So sweet, I fain would breathe it

still;

Your chilly stars I can forego,

This warm kind world is all I know.

You
say there is no substance here,
One great reality above:
Back from that void I shrink in fear,

And child-like hide myself in love.

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But, if buried seeds upthrow
Fruits and flowers; if flower and fruit
By their nature fitly show

What the seeds are, whence they shoot,

Dionysia, o'er this tomb,

Where thy buried beauties be,
From their dust shall spring and bloom
Loves and graces like to thee.

Coventry

FROM "THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE"

THE DEAN'S CONSENT

THE Ladies rose. I held the door,
And sigh'd, as her departing grace
Assur'd me that she always wore
A heart as happy as her face;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do

To hurt the hope that she 'd be mine.

Towards my mark the Dean's talk set:
He praised my "Notes on Abury,"
Read when the Association met

At Sarum; he was pleas'd to see
I had not stopp'd, as some men had,
At Wrangler and Prize Poet; last,
He hop'd the business was not bad
I came about: then the wine pass'd.

A full glass prefaced my reply:

I lov'd his daughter, Honor; I told My estate and prospects; might I try To win her? At my words so bold My sick heart sank. Then he : He gave His glad consent, if I could get Her love. A dear, good Girl! she'd

have

Only three thousand pounds as yet; More by and by. Yes, his good will Should go with me; he would not stir;

He and my father in old time still
Wish'd I should one day marry her;
But God so seldom lets us take

Our chosen pathway, when it lies
In steps that either mar or make

Or aiter others' destinies,

That, though his blessing and his pray'r
Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share
Consent and opportunity.

Patmore

My chance, he hop'd, was good: I'd won
Some name already; friends and place
Appear'd within my reach, but none
Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom

They invest their vanities admir'd ;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
For good to work will be desir'd.
"T was so with one now pass'd away;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now; and he might say

Mine was a choice I could not rue.

He ceas'd, and gave his hand. He had

won

(And all my heart was in my word) From me the affection of a son,

Whichever fortune Heaven conferr'd! Well, well, would I take more wine? Then

go

To her; she makes tea on the lawn These fine warm afternoons. And so We went whither my soul was drawn ; And her light-hearted ignorance

Of interest in our discourse Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance Her beauty with pathetic force,

As, through the flowery mazes sweet,

Fronting the wind that flutter'd blithe, And lov'd her shape, and kiss'd her feet, Shown to their insteps proud and lithe, She approach'd, all mildness and young trust,

And ever her chaste and noble air Gave to love's feast its choicest gust, A vague, faint augury of despair.

HONORIA'S SURRENDER

From little signs, like little stars,

Whose faint impression on the sense The very looking straight at mars,

Or only seen by confluence ; From instinct of a mutual thought, Whence sanctity of manners flow'd;

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