And oft, when half induced to tread

Such paths as unto sin decoy, I've felt her fond hand press my head,— And that soft touch hath saved her boy! Though hard their mockery to receive," Who ne'er themselves 'gainst sin had striven,

Her who, on earth, I dared not grieve,

I could not-would not-grieve in heaven: And thus from many an action dread, Too dark for human eyes to scan, The same fond hand upon my head

That bless'd the boy-hath saved the

Deep in the forest wilderness

The wood-built church is known; A sheltering wing, in man's distress, Spread like the Saviour's own!

The warrior from his armèd tent,
The seaman from the tide,
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent
In Christian nations wide,-
Thousands and tens of thousands bring
Their sorrows to his shrine,
And taste the never-failing spring
Of Jesus' love divine!

If, at an earthly chime, the tread
Of million, million feet

Approach whene'er the Gospel's read

In God's own temple-seat,

How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep,
To see God's saints arise;

And countless hosts of angels keep
The sabbath of the skies!

C. Swain.-Born 1803.

1702.-LOVE'S HISTORY.

By sylvan waves that westward flow
A hare-bell bent its beauty low,
With slender waist and modest brow,
Amidst the shades descending.
A star look'd from the paler sky-
The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh
Forgot that love may look too high,
And sorrow without ending.

By casement hid, the flowers among,
A maiden lean'd and listen'd long;
It was the hour of love and song,
And early night-birds calling:

A barque across the river drew ;-
The rose was glowing through and through
The maiden's cheek of trembling hue,
Amidst the twilight falling.

She saw no star, she saw no flower-
Her heart expanded to the hour;
She reck'd not of her lowly dower
Amidst the shades descending
With love thus fix'd upon a height
That seem'd so beauteous to the sight,
How could she think of wrong and blight,
And sorrow without ending.

The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew,
And closed its eye of tender blue;
No sun could e'er its life renew,

Nor star, in music calling.
The autumn leaves were early shed;
But earlier on her cottage bed
The maiden's loving heart lay dead,
Amidst the twilight falling!

C. Swain.-Born 1803.

1703.-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 flow

To join the brimming river;

For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

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 for ever.

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 for ever.

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 for ever.

Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810.

1704. THE RECONCILIATION.
As through the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,—
Oh, we fell out, I know not why,
And kiss'd again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
Oh, there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810.

1705.-THE WIDOW AND CHILD.
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,
Call'd 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 a face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her kneeLike summer tempest came her tears"Sweet my child, I live for thee." Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810.

1706.-FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

I envy not, in any moods,

The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer words.

I envy not the beast that takes

His license in the field of time,
Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth,
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth-
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall-
I feel it, when I sorrow most-
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

With trembling fingers did we weave
The holly round the Christmas hearth;
A rainy cloud possess'd the earth
And sadly fell our Christmas eve.

At our old pastimes in the hall

We gamboll'd, making vain pretence
Of gladness, with an awful sense
Of one mute Shadow watching all.

We paused; the winds were in the beech-
We heard them sweep the winter land;
And in a circle hand in hand
Sat silent, looking each at each.
Then echo-like our voices rang;

We sang, though every eye was dim-
A merry song we sang with him
Last year impetuously we sang;

We ceased. A gentler feeling crept
Upon us; surely rest is meet;

66

They rest," we said, "their sleep is sweet."

And silence follow'd, and we wept.

Our voices took a higher range;

Once more we sang: "They do not die,
Nor lose their mortal sympathy,

Nor change to us, although they change:

Rapt from the fickle and the frail,

With gather'd power, yet the same, Pierces the keen seraphic flame From orb to orb, from veil to veil.

Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!

Draw forth the cheerful day from night! O Father! touch the east, and light The light that shone when Hope was born!"

Dost thou look back on what hath been,
As some divinely gifted man,
Whose life in low estate began,
And on a simple village green ?

Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance,
And grapples with his evil star;

Who makes by force his merit known,
And lives to clutch the golden keys-
To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne;
And moving up from high to higher,
Becomes on Fortune's crowning slope
The pillar of a people's hope,
The centre of a world's desire;
Yet feels, as in a pensive dream,
When all his active powers are still,
A distant dearness in the hill,
A secret sweetness in the stream,
The limit of his narrower fate,

While yet beside its vocal springs
He play'd at counsellors and kings,
With one that was his earliest mate;
Who ploughs with pain his native lea,
And reaps the labour of his hands,
Or in the furrow musing stands :
"Does my old friend remember me?"

Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height,
Of foliage, towering sycamore;

How often, hither wandering down,

My Arthur found your shadows fair,
And shook to all the liberal air

The dust and din and steam of town!

He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mix'd in all our simple sports;

They pleased him, fresh from brawling

courts

And dusky purlieus of the law.

O joy to him, in this retreat,
Immantled in ambrosial dark,

To drink the cooler air, and mark
The landscape winking through the heat
O sound to rout the brood of cares,

The sweep of scythe in morning dew,
The gust that round the garden flew,
And tumbled half the mellowing pears!
O bliss, when all in circle drawn
About him, heart and ear were fed,
To hear him, as he lay and rea
The Tuscan poets on the lawn;

Or in the all-golden afternoon

A guest, or happy sister, sung,

Or here she brought the harp, and flung A ballad to the brightening moon! Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods,

Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, Discuss'd the books to love or hate, Or touch'd the changes of the state, Or threaded some Socratic dream.

But if I praised the busy town,

He loved to rail against it still, For "ground in yonder social mill, We rub each other's angles down, And merge," he said, "in form and gloss The picturesque of man and man." We talk'd; the stream beneath us ran, The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss, Or cool'd within the glooming wave; And last, returning from afar, Before the crimson-circled star Had fall'n into her father's grave, And brushing ankle deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honey'd hours.

Thy converse drew us with delight,

The men of rathe and riper years; The feeble soul, a haunt of fears; Forgot his weakness in thy sight.

On thee the loyal-hearted hung,

The proud was half disarm'd of pride;
Nor cared the serpent at thy side
To flicker with his treble tongue.

The stern were mild when thou wert by;
The flippant put himself to school
And heard thee; and the brazen fool
Was soften'd, and he knew not why;
While I, thy dearest, sat apart,

And felt thy triumph was as mine;

And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art;

Not mine the sweetness or the skill,

But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will.

Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,

So far, so near, in woe and weal;
Oh, loved the most when most I feel
There is a lower and a higher;

Known and unknown, human, divine!

Sweet human hand and lips and eye, Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, Mine, mine, for ever, ever mine!

Strange friend, past, present, and to be,
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold I dream a dream of good
And mingle all the world with thee.

Thy voice is on the rolling air;

I hear thee where the waters run;
Thou standest in the rising sun,
And in the setting thou art fair.

What art thou, then? I cannot guess;
But though I seem in star and flower
To feel thee, some diffusive power,
I do not therefore love thee less:

My love involves the love before;

My love is vaster passion now;
Though mix'd with God and Nature thou
I seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
I have thee still, and I rejoice,

I prosper, circled with thy voice;
I shall not lose thee, though I die.

Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810.

1707.-LADY CLARE.

Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare,

I trow they did not part in scorn; Lord Ronald, her cousin, courted her, And they will wed the morrow morn.

"He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,

Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

"It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, "To-morrow he weds with me."

"O God be thank'd!" said Alice the nurse, "That all comes round so just and fair: Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,

And you are not the Lady Clare." "Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?"

Said Lady Clare, "that ye speak so wild?" "As God's above," said Alice the nurse, "I speak the truth: you are my child. The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; I speak the truth as I live by bread! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." "Falsely, falsely have ye done,

O mother," she said, "if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due."

Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse,
"But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife."

"If I'm a beggar born," she said,

"I will speak out, for I dare not lie. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold,

And fling the diamond necklace by." "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all ye can." She said Not so; but I will know If there be any faith in man."

"Nay now, what faith ?" said Alice the nurse,
"The man will cleave unto his right."
"And he shall have it," the lady replied,
"Though I should die to-night."

"Yet give one kiss to your mother dear!
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee."
"O mother, mother, mother!" she said,
"So strange it seems to me.

Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear,
My mother dear, if this be so;
And lay your hand upon my head,

And bless me, mother, ere I go."

She clad herself in a russet gown,
She was no longer Lady Clare;
She went by dale, and she went by down,
With a single rose in her hair.

A lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought
Leapt up from where she lay,
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand,
And follow'd her all the way.

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower:
"O Lady Clare, you shame your worth!
Why come you drest like a village maid,
That are the flower of the earth ?"

"If I come drest like a village maid,
I am but as my fortunes are:
I am a beggar born," she said,

"And not the Lady Clare."

"Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "For I am yours in word and deed; Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, "Your riddle is hard to read."

Oh, and proudly stood she up!

Her heart within her did not fail; She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale.

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn;

He turn'd and kiss'd her where she stood: "If you are not the heiress born,

And I," said he, "the next of blood

If you are not the heiress born,

And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare."

Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810.

1708.-DORA.

With farmer Allan at the farm abode
William and Dora. William was his son,
And she his niece. He often look'd at them,
And often thought, "I'll make them man
and wife."

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,

And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house,
Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My

son:

I married late, but I would wish to see
My grandchild on my knees before I die;
And I have set my heart upon a match.
Now therefore look to Dora; she is well
To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
She is my brother's daughter; he and I
Had once hard words, and parted, and he
died

In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
His daughter Dora; take her for your wife;
For I have wish'd this marriage, night and
day,

For many years." But William answer'd short:

"I cannot marry Dora; by my life,

"You will not, boy! you dare to answer

thus!

But in my time a father's word was law,
And so it shall be now for me. Look to 't;
Consider, William: take a month to think,
And let me have an answer to my wish;
Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall
pack,

And never more darken my doors again!
But William answer'd madly; bit his lips,
And broke away. The more he look'd at

her

The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;

But Dora bore them meekly. Then before The month was out he left his father's house, And hired himself to work within the fields; And half in love, half spite, he woo'd and wed

A labourer's daughter, Mary Morrison.

Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan call'd

His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well; But if you speak with him that was my son, Or change a word with her he calls his wife, My home is none of yours. My will is law." And Dora promised, being meek. She thought, 'It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!" And days went on, and there was born a boy

To William; then distresses came on him;
And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,
Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.
But Dora stored what little she could save,
And sent it them by stealth, nor did they
know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
"I have obey'd my uncle until now,
And I have sinn'd, for it was all through me
This evil came on William at the first.
But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
And for this orphan, I am come to you.
You know there has not been for these five

And Dora took the child, and went her way Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound That was unsown, where many poppies grew. Far off the farmer came into the field And spied her not; for none of all his men Dare tell him Dora waited with the child; And Dora would have risen and gone to him, But her heart fail'd her; and the reapers

reap'd,