That I, in whom the sweet time wrought.
Lay stretch'd within a lonely glade,
Abandon'd to delicious thought

Beneath the softly twinkling shade.
The leaves, all stirring, mimick'd well
A neighbouring rush of rivers cold,
And, as the sun or shadow fell,

So these were green and those were gold; In dim recesses hyacinths droop'd,

And breadths of primrose lit the air,

Which, wandering through the woodland, stoop'd
And gather'd perfumes here and there;

Upon the spray the squirrel swung,
And careless songsters, six or seven,

Sang lofty songs the leaves among,
Fit for their only listener, Heaven.

C. Patmore

LX

Birds in the high Hall-garden
When twilight was falling,
Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud,
They were crying and calling.

Where was Maud? in our wood;
And I, who else, was with her,
Gathering woodland lilies,
Myriads blow together.

Birds in our wood sang
Ringing thro' the valleys,
Maud is here, here, here
In among the lilies.

I kiss'd her slender hand,

She took the kiss sedately;

Maud is not seventeen,

But she is tall and stately.

F

I to cry out on pride

Who have won her favour! O Maud were sure of Heaven If lowliness could save her.

I know the way she went

Home with her maiden posy,
For her feet have touch'd the meadows
And left the daisies rosy.

Birds in the high Hall-garden
Were crying and calling to her,
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud?
One is come to woo her.

Look, a horse at the door,

And little King Charley snarling : -Go back, my lord, across the moor, You are not her darling.

A. Lord Tennyson

LXI

A LOVE SYMPHONY

Along the garden ways just now
I heard the flowers speak;
The white rose told me of your brow,
The red rose of your cheek;

The lily of your bended head,
The bindweed of your hair :
Each look'd its loveliest and said
You were more fair.

I went into the wood anon,

And heard the wild birds sing, How sweet you were; they warbled on, Piped, trill'd the self-same thing. Thrush, blackbird, linnet, without pause The burden did repeat,

And still began again because

You were more sweet.

And then I went down to the sea,
And heard it murmuring too,
Part of an ancient mystery,

you:

All made of me and
How many a thousand years ago
I loved, and you were sweet-
Longer I could not stay, and so
I fled back to your feet.

A. O'Shaughnessy

LXII

FAR-FAR-AWAY

(FOR MUSIC)

What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew
As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue,
Far-far-away?

What sound was dearest in his native dells?
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells

Far-far-away.

What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy,
Thro' those three words would haunt him when a boy,
Far-far-away?

A whisper from his dawn of life? a breath

From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death

Far-far-away?

Far, far, how far? from o'er the gates of Birth,
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth,

Far-far-away?

What charm in words, a charm no words could give? O dying words, can Music make you live

Far-far-away?

A. Lord Tennyson

LXIII

THE OLD, OLD SONG'

When all the world is young, lad,
And all the trees are green;
And every goose a swan, lad,
And every lass a queen;
Then hey for boot and horse, lad,
And round the world away;
Young blood must have its course, lad,

And every dog his day.

When all the world is old, lad,

And all the trees are brown;

And all the sport is stale, lad,

And all the wheels run down :
Creep home, and take your place there,
The spent and maim'd among :

God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young.

C. Kingsley

LXIV

ON A PHOTOGRAPH

Since through the open window of the eye
The unconscious secret of the soul we trace,
And character is written on the face,
In this sun-picture what do we descry?
An artless innocence, and purpose high

To tread the pleasant paths of truth and grace,
To tend each flower of Duty in its place,
Smile with the gay and comfort those who sigh.
Dear maiden, let a poet breathe the prayer

That God may keep thee still, in all thy ways, Spotless in heart as those in face art fair; And may the gentle current of thy days Make music even from the stones of care, And murmur with an undersong of praise.

R. Wilton

LXV

OLD JANE

I love old women best, I think:
She knows a friend in me,—
Old Jane, who totters on the brink
Of God's Eternity;

Whose limbs are stiff, whose cheek is lean,
Whose eyes look up, afraid;

Though you may gather she has been
A little laughing maid..

Once had she with her doll what times,
And with her skipping-rope!

Her head was full of lovers' rhymes,
Once, and her heart of hope;
Who, now, with eyes as sad as sweet,-
I love to look on her,-

At corner of the gusty street,

Asks, Buy a pencil, Sir?'

Her smile is as the litten West,
Nigh-while the sun is gone;
She is more fain to be at rest
Than here to linger on:
Beneath her lids the pictures flit
Of memories far-away:

Her look has not a hint in it

Of what she sees to-day.

T. Ashe

LXVI

WAGES

Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless

sea

Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong

Nay, but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory

she:

Give her the glory of going on, and still to be.