Such a charm was right Canidian
Though you met it with a jeer!
If I said it long enough,

Then the rain hummed dimly off
And the thrush with his pure Lydian
Was left only to the ear;

And the sun and I together

Went a-rushing out of doors: We our tender spirits drew Over hill and dale in view, Glimmering hither, glimmering thither, In the footsteps of the showers.

Underneath the chestnuts dripping,
Through the grasses wet and fair,
Straight I sought my garden-ground
With the laurel on the mound,
And the pear-tree overs weeping
A side-shadow of green air.

In the garden lay supinely

A huge giant wrought of spade! Arms and legs were stretched at length In a passive giant strength,The fine meadow turf, cut finely,

Round them laid and interlaid.

Call him Hector, son of Priam !
Such his title and degree.

With my rake I smoothed his brow,
Both his cheeks I weeded through,

But a rhymer such as I am,

Scarce can sing his dignity.

Eyes of gentianellas azure,
Staring, winking at the skies;
Nose of gillyflowers and box
Scented grasses put for locks,
Which a little breeze at pleasure
Set a-waving round his eyes:

Brazen helm of daffodillies,

With a glitter toward the light;
Purple violets for the mouth,
Breathing perfumes west and south;

And sword of flashing lilies,

Holden ready for the fight:

And a breastplate made of daisies,
Closely fitting, leaf on leaf;
Periwinkles interlaced

Drawn for belt about the waist; While the brown bees, humming praises, Shot their arrows round the chief.

And who knows, (I sometimes wondered), If the disembodied soul

Of old Hector, once of Troy, Might not take a dreary joy Here to enter-if it thundered, Rolling up the thunder-roll?

Rolling this way from Troy-ruin,
In this body rude and rife
Just to enter, and take rest
'Neath the daisies of the breast-

They, with tender roots, renewing
His heroic heart to life?

Who could know? I sometimes started
At a motion or a sound!

Did his mouth speak-naming Troy
With an οτοτοτοτοι?

Did the pulse of the Strong-hearted
Make the daisies tremble round?

But the birds sang in the tree,
But the little birds sang bold
In the pear-tree green and old,
And my terror seemed to soften
Through the courage of their glee.

Oh, the birds, the tree, the ruddy
And white blossoms sleek with rain!
Oh, my garden rich with pansies!
Oh, my childhood's bright romances!
All revive, like Hector's body,

And I see them stir again.

And despite life's changes, chances,
And despite the deathbell's toll,
They press on me in full seeming:
Help, some angel! stay this dreaming!
As the birds sang in the branches,
Sing God's patience through my soul !

That no dreamer, no neglecter
Of the present's work unsped,
I may wake up and be doing,
Life's heroic ends pursuing,
Though my past is dead as Hector,
And though Hector is twice dead.

E. B. Browning.

THE GARRET.

(After Béranger.)

WITH pensive eyes the little room I view,
Where, in my youth, I weathered it so long;
With a wild mistress, a staunch friend or two,
And a light heart still breaking into song:
Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
Rich in the glory of my rising sun,

Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,

In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Yes, 'tis a garret-let him know't who willThere was my bed-full hard it was and small; My table there—and I decipher still

Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall.
Ye joys, that time hath swept with him away,
Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun;
For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

One jolly evening, when my friends and I
Made happy music with our songs and cheers,
A shout of triumph mounted up thus high,
And distant cannon opened on our ears:
We rise, we join in the triumphant strain,—
Napoleon conquers—Austerlitz is won-
Tyrants shall never tread us down again,
In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

Let us begone-the place is sad and strange-
How far, far off, these happy times appear;
All that I have to live I'd gladly change

For one such month as I have wasted here-
To draw long dreams of beauty, love, and power,
From founts of hope that never will outrun,
And drink all life's quintessence in an hour,
Give me the days when I was twenty-one!
W. M. Thackeray.

FAIR INES.

I.

O SAW ye not fair Ines?

She's gone

into the West,

To dazzle when the sun is down,

And rob the world of rest:

She took our daylight with her,

The smiles that we love best,

With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.

II.

O turn again, fair Ines,

Before the fall of night,

For fear the Moon should shine alone,

And stars unrivalled bright;

And blessed will the lover be

That walks beneath their light,

And breathes the love against thy cheek

I dare not even write!