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, If, at an earthly chime, the tread Approach whene'er the Gospel's read In God's own temple-seat, How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep, And countless hosts of angels keep C. Swain.-Born 1803. 1702.-LOVE'S HISTORY. By sylvan waves that westward flow By casement hid, the flowers among, A barque across the river drew ;- She saw no star, she saw no flower- The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, Nor star, in music calling. C. Swain.-Born 1803. 1703.-SONG OF THE BROOK. I come from haunts of coot and hern; And sparkle out among the fern, By thirty hills I hurry down, To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, 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 I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, I wind about, and in and out, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river; I steal by lawns and grassy plots; I move the sweet forget-me-nots I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, I make the netted sunbeam dance I murmur under moon and stars I linger by my shingly bars; And out again I curve and flow Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810. 1704. THE RECONCILIATION. For when we came where lies the child Alfred Tennyson.-Born 1810. 1705.-THE WIDOW AND CHILD. "She must weep or she will die." 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, I hold it true, whate'er befall- With trembling fingers did we weave At our old pastimes in the hall We gamboll'd, making vain pretence We paused; the winds were in the beech- We sang, though every eye was dim- We ceased. A gentler feeling crept 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 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, Who breaks his birth's invidious bar, Who makes by force his merit known, While yet beside its vocal springs Witch-elms, that counterchange the floor How often, hither wandering down, My Arthur found your shadows fair, The dust and din and steam of town! He brought an eye for all he saw; They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts And dusky purlieus of the law. O joy to him, in this retreat, To drink the cooler air, and mark The sweep of scythe in morning dew, 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; The stern were mild when thou wert by; 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; 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, Thy voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; What art thou, then? I cannot guess; My love involves the love before; My love is vaster passion now; Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I prosper, circled with thy voice; 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, 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, Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "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, "Yet give one kiss to your mother dear! Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, A lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: "If I come drest like a village maid, "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 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, Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son: I married late, but I would wish to see In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred 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 never more darken my doors again! 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; Who sent it; till at last a fever seized 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: 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, |