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speak lightly of you over their nuts and raisins, mimicking your accent, and retailing dull, insipid boy-pleasantries. Enlightened by the experience of fatherhood, they will see with a clear remembrance your firmness in dealing with their moral faults, your patience in dealing with their intellectual weak

And, calling to mind the old school-room, they will think: “Ah! it was good for us to be there. For, unknown to us, were made therein three tabernacles, one for us,

and one for our schoolmaster, and one for Him that is the Friend of all children, and the Master of all schoolmasters.” Ah! believe me, brother mine, where two or three children are met together, unless He, who is the Spirit of gentleness, be in the midst of them, then our Latin is but sounding brass, and our Greek but a tinkling cymbal.

Thompson.

200.-SONGS FROM TENNYSON.

LATE, LATE, SO LATE !
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chi:l!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still,

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light had we: for that we do repent;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O let us in, that we may find the light!

Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
O let us in, tho' late, to kiss his feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.

SONG OF THE MAIDEN.
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

SONG OF THE MOTHER.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,
Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;
While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,
Silver sails all out of the west,

Under the silver moon :
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

ENID'S SONG.
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel and lower the proud;
Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine, storm, and cloud:

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate. Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown; With that wild wheel we go not up or down;

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown and we smile, the lords of our own hands;

For man is man and master of his fate.
Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd;
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud;

Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

SONG OF ELAINE.

Sweet is true love, tho' given in vain, in vain;
And sweet is death who puts an end to pain:

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
Love, art thou sweet? then bitter death must be:
Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to me.

O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die.

Sweet Love, that seems not made to fade away,
Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay,

I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.
I fain would follow love, if that could be:
I needs must follow death, who calls for me;
Call and I follow, I follow! let me die.

SONG OF VIVIEN.
In Love, if Love be Love, if Love be ours,
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers:

Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute,
That by and by will make the music mute,

And ever widening slowly silence all.
The little rift within the lover's lute,
Or little pitted speck in garner'd fruit,

That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
It is not worth the keeping : let it go:
But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no.
And trust me not at all or all in all.

“BREAK, BREAK, BREAKI" Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still i
Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.

THE BUGLE SONG.
The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes Aying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear; how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going !

a

O sweet and far, from clift and scar
The horns of Elfland fair.tly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

SONG OF THE BROOK.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,

I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,

And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I fow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.
I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out,

With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,

And here and there a grayling.
And here and there a foamy flake

Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery waterbreak

Above the golden gravel.
And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.
I steal by lawns and grassy plots

I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots

That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses;
And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I LIVE FOR THEE.”
Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd 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 stept, 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."

TRISTAM'S SONG.
Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that bend the brier!

A star in heaven, a star within mere!
Ay, ay, O ay—a star was my desire,

And one was far apart, and one was near: Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that bow the grass !

And one was water, and one star was fire, And one will ever shine and one will pass.

Ay, ay, O ay—the winds that move the mere.

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