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But follow; let the torrent dance thee down
To find him in the valley; let the wild
Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave
The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill
Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke,
That like a broken purpose waste in air:
So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales
Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth
Arise to thee; the children call, and I
Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet ;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.

LORD TENNYSON.

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333

FROM IN MEMORIAM'

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow :
The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

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For those that here we see no more; 10
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

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Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

LORD TENNYSON.

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Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud,

I am here at the gate alone;

And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,

To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon ;

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All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd 15 To the dancers dancing in tune;

Till a silence fell with the waking bird,

And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, 'There is but one

With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;

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Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.

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I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.

O young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine?

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But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rosé, 'For ever and ever, mine.'

And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;

And long by the garden lake I stood,

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For I heard your rivulet fall

From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,

Our wood, that is dearer than all ;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs

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He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,

To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;

The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;

But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;

The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,

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In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

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Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

She is coming, my dove, my dear;

From the passion-flower at the gate.

She is coming, my life, my fate;

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The red rose cries, She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, ' I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet ;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;

Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

335

LORD TENNYSON.

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.

LORD TENNYSON.

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336

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS

Some Sikhs and a private of the Buffs having remained behind with the grog carts, fell into the hands of the Chinese. On the next morning they were brought before the authorities, and commanded to perform the Kotow. The Sikhs obeyed; but Moyse, the English soldier, declaring that he would not prostrate himself before any Chinaman alive, was immediately knocked upon the head, and his body thrown on a dunghill.-The Times.

Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed, and swore,

A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.

To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,

Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered, and alone,

A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.

Aye, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame :

He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd,
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke, above his father's door,
In grey soft eddyings hung :

Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself so young?

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