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I said to the lily, “There is but one Shine out, little head, sunning over with With whom she has heart to be gay.

curls, When will the dancers leave her alone? To the flowers, and be their sun.

She is weary of dance and play.”
Now half to the setting moon are gone, There has fallen a splendid tear
And half to the rising day;

From the passion-flower at the gate.
Low on the sand and loud on the stone She is coming, my dove, my dear;
The last wheel echoes away.

She is coming, my life, my fate;

The red rose cries, “She is near, she is I said to the rose, “The brief night

near”; goes

And the white rose weeps, "She is In babble and revel and wine.

late"; O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, The larkspur listens, “I hear, I hear”; For one that will never be thine?

And the lily whispers, “ I wait.” But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,

She is coming, my own, my sweet; “For ever and ever, mine."

Were it ever so airy a tread,

My heart would hear her and beat, And the soul of the rose went into my

Were it earth in an earthy bed; blood,

My dust would hear her and beat, As the music clash'd in the hall;

Had I lain for a century dead; And long by the garden lake I stood,

Would start and tremble under her feet, For I heard your rivulet fall

And blossom in purple and red. From the lake to the meadow and on to

the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;

THE BROOK.
From the meadow your walks have left
So sweet

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
That whenever a March-wind sighs I make a sudden sally
He sets the jewel-print of your feet And sparkle out among the fern,
In violets blue as your eyes,

To bicker down a valley. To the woody hollows in which we meet

By thirty hills I hurry down, And the valleys of Paradise.

Or slip between the ridges,

By twenty thorps, a little town, The slender acacia would not shake And half a hundred bridges.

One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the Till last by Philip's farm I flow lake,

To join the brimming river, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; For men may come and men may go, But the rose was awake all night for But I go on forever.

your sake,

Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake,

They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

I chatter over stony ways,

In little sharps and trebles.
I bubble into eddying bays,

I babble on the pebbles.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of

girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,

Queen lily and rose in one;

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow,
İnd many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

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be ours,

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance

Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars

In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses;

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 byand 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."

And out again I curve and flow

To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY

WHEEL. [Idyls of the King: Enid.] TURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel and

lower the proud: Turn thy wild wheel thro' sunshine,

storm, and cloud; Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor

hate.

SWEET IS TRUE LOVE.

[Idyls of the King: Elaine.] “SWEET is true love, tho’given in

vain, in vain; And sweet is death who puts an end to

pain: I know not which is sweeter, no, not i.

me.

fade away,

my life

Love, art thou sweet? then bitter Until it came a kingdom's curse with death must be:

thee Love, thou art bitter; sweet is death to I cannot touch thy lips, they are not

mine, O Love, if death be sweeter, let me die. But Lancelot's: nay, they never were

the King's. “ Sweet Love, that seems not made to I cannot take thy hand; that too is flesh,

And in the flesh thou hast sinn'd; and Sweet death, that seems to make us love

mine own flesh, less clay,

Here looking down on thine polluted, I know not which is sweeter, no, not I.

cries

'I loathe thee'; yet not less, O Guine“I fain would follow love, if that could

vere, be;

For I was ever virgin save for thee, I needs must follow death, who calls for My love thro' flesh hath wrought into

me; Call and I follow, I follow ! let me die.” So far, that my doom is, I love thee

still. Let no man dream but that I love thee

still.. ARTHUR'S FAREWELL TO Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, GUINEVERE.

And so thou lean on our fair father

Christ, [Idyls of the King : Guinevere.]

Hereafter in that world where all are “ YET think not that I come to urge

pure thy crimes,

We two may meet before high God, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere,

and thou I, whose vast pity almost makes me die Wilt spring to me, and claim me thine, To see thee, laying there thy golden

and know head,

I am thine husbandnot a smaller soul, My pride in happier summers, at my Nor Lancelot, nor another.

Leave me feet.

that, The wrath which forced my thoughts on I charge thee, my last hope. Now must that fierce law,

I hence. The doom of treason and the faming Thro’the thick night I hear the trumpet death,

blow : (When first I learnt thee hidden here) They summon me their King to lead

mine hosts - which while I weigh'd thy Far down to that great battle in the west, heart with one

Where I must strike against my sister's Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee,

son, Made my tears burn — is also past, in Leagued with the lords of the White part.

Horse and knights And all is past, the sin is sinn'd, and I, Once mine, and strike him dead, and Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God

meet myself Forgives : do thou for thine own soul Death, or know not what mysterious the rest.

doom. But how to take last leave of all I loved? And thou remaining here wilt learn the O golden hair, with which I used to

event; play

But hither shall I never come again, Notknowing! Oimperial-moulded form, Never lie by thy side, see thee no more, And beauty such as woman never wore, Farewell!”

is past. The pang

And while he whistled long and loud

He heard a fierce mermaiden cry, “O Boy, tho' thou art young and proud,

I see the place where thou wilt lie.

WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE

SAYI

(Sea Dreams.]
What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little lor.ger,
Baby too shall fly away.

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THE SAILOR-BOY.
He rose at dawn, and, fired with hope,

Shot o'er the seething harbor-bar,
And reach'd the ship and caught the

rope, And whistled to the morning star.

“God help me! save I take my part

Of danger on the roaring sea,
A devil rises in my heart,

Far worse than any death to me."

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

1811-1863

(BORN at Calcutta, India, in 1811. Son of a gentleman in the civil service of the East India Company; came to England in 1818. Educated at the Charter House School, London, and at Trinity College, Cambridge, but left without taking a degree. Travelled and studied in the conti nent with a view to becoming a painter. In 1838 became a correspondent of the Times, and adopted literature as a profession, in which he became very successful, and in popular estimation a rival of Dickens for the first place in modern English fiction. He also studied law and was admitted to the bar in 1848, but never practiced. He founded the Cornhill Magazine, 1859. Died at Kensington Palace Gardens, London, Dec. 24, 1863.]

THE END OF THE PLAY.
THE play is done, - the curtain drops, It is an irksome word and task;

Slow falling to the prompter's bell; And when he's laughedandsaid his say, A moment yet the actor stops,

He shows, as he removes the mask, And looks around, to say farewell. A face that's anything but gay.

more

as

One word, ere yet the evening ends, - This crowns his feast with wine and. Let's close it with a parting rhyme;

wit, And pledge a hand to all young friends, Who brought him to that mirth and As flits the merry Christmas time;

state? On life's wide scene you, too, have His betters, see, below him sit, parts

Or hunger hopeless at the gate. That fate erelong shall bid you play; Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel Good night! — with honest, gentle To spurn the rags of Lazarus ? hearts

Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, A kindly greeting go alway!

Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. Good night !—I'd say the griefs, the joys,

So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Just hinted in this mimic page,

Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely The triumphs and defeats of boys,

killed; Are but repeated in our age;

Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance I'd say your woes were not less keen,

And longing passion unfulfilled. Your hopes more vain, than those of Amen! - whatever fate be sent, men,

Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen Although the head with cares be bent, At forty-five played o'er again.

And whitened with the winter snow. I'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor

men than

Come wealth or want, come good or boys, –

ill, With grizzled beards at forty-five,

Let young and old accept their part, As erst at twelve in corduroys;

And bow before the awful will, And if, in time of sacred youth,

And bear it with an honest heart. We learned at home to love and

Who misses, or who wins the prize, pray,

Go, lose or conquer as you can; Pray Heaven that early love and truth

But if you fail, or if you rise, May never wholly pass away.

Be each, pray God, a gentleman. And in the world, as in the school, I'd say how fate may change and A gentleman, or old or young! shift,

(Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The prize be sometimes with the fool, The sacred chorus first was sung The race not always to the swift:

Upon the first of Christmas days; The strong may yield, the good may The shepherds heard it overhead, fall,

The joyful angels raised it then: The great man be a vulgar clown, Glory to Heaven on high, it said, The knave be lifted over all,

And peace on earth to gentle men! The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? My song, save this, is little worth;

Blessèd be He who took and gave ! I lay the weary pen aside, Why should your mother, Charles, not And wish you health and love and mine,

mirth, Be weeping at her darling's grave? As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. We bow to Heaven that willed it so, As fits the holy Christmas birth, That darkly rules the fate of all,

Be this, good friends, our carol still,That sends the respite or the blow, Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, That's free to give or to recall.

To men of gentle will.

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