No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more; Silent is the ivory shrill

Past the heath and up the hill; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone Echo gives the half To some wight, amaz'd to hear Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time in June
You may go with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent ;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din ; Gone, the song of Gamelyn; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the “grené shawe”; All are gone away and past! And if Robin could be cast

Sudden from his turféd grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,

She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear; for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas:
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow string !
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green !
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John!
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to Maid Marian,

And to all the Sherwood-clan!

Though their days have hurried by

Let us two a burden try.

J. Keats.

On the Rhine

(From Lyric Poems)

VAIN is the effort to forget,

Some day I shall be cold, I know,

As is the eternal moon-lit snow

Of the high Alps, to which I go :

But ah, not yet! not yet!

Vain is the agony of grief.

'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot

Ties straitly up from mine thy lot,

And were it snapt-thou lov'st me not!
But is despair relief?

Awhile let me with thought have done;
And as this brimm'd unwrinkled Rhine,
And that far purple mountain line,
Lie sweetly in the look divine

Of the slow sinking sun ;

So let me lie, and, calm as they,
Let beam upon my inward view

Those eyes of deep soft lucent hue-
Eyes too expressive to be blue,
Too lovely to be grey.

Ah, Quiet, all things feel thy balm !
Those blue hills too, this river's flow,
Were restless once, but long ago.
Tam'd is their turbulent youthful glow :
Their joy is in their calm.

M. Arnold.

(From Echoes)

HAVE you blessed, behind the stars,
The blue sheen in the skies,

When June the roses round her calls?
Then do you know the light that falls
From her beloved eyes.

And have you felt the sense of peace
That morning meadows give?
Then do you know the spirit of grace,
The angel abiding in her face,

Who makes it good to live.

She shines before me, hope and dream,
So fair, so still, so wise,

That winning her, I seem to win
Out of the dust and drive and din
A nook of Paradise.

W. E. Henley.

Heraclitus

(From Ionica)

THEY told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,

They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.

I wept as I remembered how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down

the sky.

And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,

A handful of grey ashes, long long ago at rest, Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;

For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take. W. Cory.

(From Hydriotaphia)

To be content that times to come should only

know there was such a man, not caring whether they knew more of him, was a frigid ambition in Cardan; disparaging his horoscopal inclination and judgment of himself. Who cares to subsist like Hippocrate's patients, or Achilles's horses in Homer, under naked nominations, without deserts and noble acts, which are the balsam of our memories, the entelechia and soul of our subsistencies? To be nameless in worthy deeds, exceeds an infamous history. The Canaan. itish woman lives more happily without a name, than Herodias with one. And who had not rather have been the good thief than Pilate?

But the iniquity of oblivion blindly scattereth her poppy, and deals with the memory of men without distinction to merit of perpetuity. Who can but pity the founder of the pyramids? Herostratus lives that burnt the temple of Diana, he is almost lost that built it. Time hath spared the