Then by some secret shrine I ride; I hear a voice, but none are there; Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I leap on board: no helmsman steers: A gentle sound, an awful light! Three angels bear the holy Grail: When on my goodly charger borne Thro' dreaming towns I go, The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, The streets are dumb with snow. The tempest crackles on the leads, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. I leave the plain, I climb the height; A maiden knight-to me is given I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT. PRUNE thou thy words; the thoughts control That o'er thee swell and throng; They will condense within thy soul, And change to purpose strong. But he who lets his feelings run In soft luxurious flow, Shrinks when hard service must be done, And faints at every woe. Faith's meanest deed more favor bears, JOHN HENRY NEW MAN. SANTA FILOMENA. [FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE.] WHENE'ER a noble deed is wrought, The tidal wave of deeper souls And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! Thus thought I, as by night I read The trenches cold and damp, The starved and frozen camp, |