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WHEN the young hand of Darnley locked in hers
Had knit her to her northern doom-amid

The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters,
Her fate looked forth and was no longer hid;
A jealous brain beneath a southern crown
Wrought spells upon her; from afar she felt
The waxen image of her fortunes melt
Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown
Of her own lords o'ermastered her sweet smiles,
And nipped her growing gladness, till she mourned,
And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles;
But, ever since, all generous hearts have burned
To clear her fame, yea, very babes have yearned
Over this saddest story of the isles.

Charles Tennyson Turner [1808–1879]


[JEAN FRANÇOIS MILLET, 1814-1875] NOT far from Paris, in fair Fontainebleau, A lovely memory-haunted hamlet lies,

Whose tender spell makes captive, and defies
Forgetfulness. The peasants come and go-
Their backs too used to stoop, and patient sow
The harvest which a narrow want supplies—
Even as when, Earth's pathos in his eyes,
Millet dwelt here, companion of their woe.

Ah, Barbizon! With thorns, not laurels, crowned,
He looked thy sorrows in the face, and found-
Vital as seed warm-nestled in the sod-
The hidden sweetness at the heart of pain;
Trusting thy sun and dew, thy wind and rain-
At home with Nature, and at one with God!
Florence Earle Coates [1850-

Barry Cornwall" 3413



hree distant ages born,
England did adorn.

ss of thought surpassed;
ty; in both the last.
ure could no further go:

he joined the former two.

John Dryden [1631-1700]


PROCTER, 1787-1874]

here the singers whose names are

music unheard of men,

es fade not of lips long breathless, he that shall weep not or change

1 with the blossom of snow-white

he world of the dead men hears? words on our lips were honey, s and our fathers' ears was sweet, of the land his songs made sunny, bright world where the glad ghosts

n and bride, and anguish and rest, inger than this more blest.

et sake that were filled and bright

with the fruit and the flower of his

st that heard, and their cares were

blest that have fostered his name so

By the living and dead lips blest that have loved his name, And clothed with their praise and crowned with their love for fame.

Ah, fair and fragrant his fame as flowers that close not,

That shrink not by day for heat or for cold by night, As a thought in the heart shall increase when the heart's self knows not,

Shall endure in our ears as a sound, in our eyes as a light; Shall wax with the years that wane and the seasons' chime, As a white rose thornless that grows in the garden of time.

The same year calls, and one goes hence with another,

And men sit sad that were glad for their sweet songs' sake; The same year beckons, and elder with younger brother Takes mutely the cup from his hand that we all shall take. They pass ere the leaves be past or the snows be come; And the birds are loud, but the lips that outsang them dumb.

Time takes them home that we loved, fair names and famous, To the soft long sleep, to the broad sweet bosom of death; But the flower of their souls he shall take not away to shame


Nor the lips lack song forever that now lack breath. For with us shall the music and perfume that die not dwell, Though the dead to our dead bid welcome, and we farewell. Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]


[LORD RAGLAN, 1788-1855]

Ан, not because our Soldier died before his field was won; Ah, not because life would not last till life's long task were


Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less grief,-of all our hosts that led

Not last in work and worth approved, Lord Raglan lieth


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glish hearts too good to pave the we grudge what noble palm he ught a-front, and 'mid his soldiers rn as theirs; oh! make his grave as

the Dead who died that Russian

t measure men,-their souls and his id sick tent as they in bloody strife, : English Chief gave what he had—

Edwin Arnold [1832-1904]

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