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Nor let thy bawling fellows rack

their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot

another head;

But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone

to rest, And only the white sheep are some

times seen Cross and recross the strips of moon

blanch'd green, Come, shepherd, and again renew the

quest !

And blow a strain the world at las

shall heed For Time, not Corydon, hath con

quer'd thee! Alack, for Corydon no rival now! But when Sicilian shepherds lost :

mate, Some good survivor with his flute

would go,

Here, where the reaper was at work of

late In this high field's dark corner, where

he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earth

en cruse, And in the sun all morning binds the

sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his

stores to use

Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is

borne, With distant cries of reapers in the

Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate;
And cross the unpermitted ferry's


And relax Pluto's brow, And make leap up with joy the

beauteous head Of Proserpine, among whose crown

ed hair Are flowers firstopen'd on Sicilianair

, And flute his friend, like Orpheus,

from the dead. O easy access to the hearer's grace When Dorian shepherds sang to Pros

erpine ! For she herself had trod Sicilian

fields, She knew the Dorian water's gush

divine, She knew each lily white which

Enna yields,

Each rose with blushing face; She loved the Dorian pipe, the Dorian

strain. But ah, of our poor Thames she

never heard! Her foot the Cumner cowslips

never stirr'd; And we should tease her with our

plaint in vain !


All the live murmur of a summer's day.

FROM "THYRSIS." He hearkens not! light comer, he is

flown! What matters it? next year he will

return, And we shall have him in the sweet

spring-days, With whitening hedges, and uncrum

pling fern, And blue-bells trembling by the


And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains See him come back, and cut a

smoother reed,

THE LAST WORD. CREEP into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said ! Vain thy onset! all stands fast. Thou thyself must break at last. Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will! Thou art tired; best be still.

shall see;

They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore | Charge once more, then, and be dumb! thee?

Let the victors, when they come, Better men fared thus before thee; When the forts of folly fall, Fired their ringing shot and pass’d, Find thy body by the wall ! Hotly charged - and sank at last.



(SYDNEY DOBELL was born at Cranbrook in Kent in 1824, was educated at home, and for the greater part of his life was engaged in business in Gloucestershire. His first published poem, The Roman, inspired by his life-long enthusiasm for the Italian cause, appeared in 1850; his next, Balder, was finished in 1853. În 1855 he wrote in conjunction with Alexander Smith a series of sonnets, suggested by the Crimean struggle. This volume was followed by another, of descriptive and lyrical verses, on the same theme, England in Time of War. Subsequently his health gave way, and after living for several years, the winters of which he passed abroad, more or less in the condition of an invalid, he died at Barton End House near Nailsworth, in 1874. A complete edi. tion of his poems was published in 1875.] TOMMY'S DEAD.

Move my chair on the floor, boys, You may give over plough, boys,

Let me turn my head: You may take the gear to the stead;

She's standing there in the door, boys,

Your sister Winifred!
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.

Take her away from me, boys,
The seed's waste, I know, boys;

Your sister Winifred ! There's not a blade will grow, boys;

Move me round in my place, boys, 'Tis cropped out, I trow, boys,

Let me turn my head, And Tommy's dead.

Take her away from me, boys,

As she lay on her death-bed Send the colt to the fair, boys —

The bones of her thin face, boys, He's going blind, as I said,

As she lay on her death-bed! My old eyes can't bear, boys,

I don't know how it be, boys, To see him in the shed;

When all's done and said, The cow's dry and spare, boys,

But I see her looking at me, boys, She's neither here nor there, boys,

Wherever I turn my head; I doubt she's badly bred;

Out of the big oak-tree, boys, Stop the mill to-morn, boys,

Out of the garden-bed, There'll be no more corn, boys,

And the lily as pale as she, boys,
Neither white nor red;

And the rose that used to be red.
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys, There's something not right, boys,
The land's not what it was, boys,

But I think it's not in my head;
And the beasts must be fed :

I've kept my precious sight, boys — You may turn Peg away, boys,

The Lord be hallowed. You may pay off old Ned,

Outside and in We've had a dull day, boys,

The ground is cold to my tread, And Tommy's dead.

The bills are wizen and thin,

The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed;
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

The sky is shrivelled and shred;
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread.
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fled,
And the summer's empty and cold;
Over valley and wold,
Wherever I turn my head,
There's a mildew and a mould;
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.

I'm not used to kiss, boys;
You may shake my hand instead.
All things go amiss, boys,
You may lay me where she is, boys,
And I'll rest my old head;
'Tis a poor world, this, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

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Circa 1825-circa 1875. [A SISTER to F. E. Smedley. Author of Nina, 1861; Twice Lost, and other Prose Tales, 1863; Linnet's Trial, 1864; À Mere Story, 1869; Other Folks' Lives, 1869; Lays and Bal. lads from English History, 1858; Poems, 1868; Two Dramatic Poems, 1874. Her reputation as a poet rests chiefly upon her shorter poems. ]

A LITTLE fair soul that knew no sin “ And like an army in the snow

Looked over the edge of Paradise, My days went by, a treacherous train, And saw one striving to come in, Each smiling as he struck his blow,

With fear and tumult in his eyes. Until I lay among them — slain.”

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* Tell me,

where are our sisters gone?” “I cannot move this mighty weight, “Alas, I left them weary and wan.” I cannot find this golden key; “ And tell me, is the baby grown?” But hosts of heaven around us wait, “Alas! he is almost a man.”

And none has ever said 'no' to me.

“ Cannot you break the gathering days,

And letthelight of death comethrough, Ere his feet stumble in the maze

Crossed safely by so few, so few?

“Sweet Saint, put by thy palm and scroll,

And come undo the door for me!” “Rest thee still, thou little fair soul,

It is not mine to keep the key."

“For like a crowd upon the sea

That darkens till you find no shore, So was the face of life to me,

Until I sank for evermore.

“Kind Angel, strike these doors apart !

The air without is dark and cold.” “Rest thee still, thou little pure heart,

Not for my word will they unfold.”

Up all the shining heights he prayed

For that poor Shadow in the cold ! Still came the word, “Not ours to aid;

We cannot make the doors unfold.”

And all the souls went up and cried,

Where never cry was heard in vain.

Lut that poor Shadow, still outside,

Wrung all the sacred air with pain;

No eye beheld the pitying Face,

The answer none might understand, But dimly through the silent space

Was seen the stretching of a Hand.


1825-1864. (BORN at London, Oct. 30, 1825; daughter of Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall). Her first contributions to Household Words, under the name “Mary Berwick,' were in 1853, to which periodical she became a regular contributor. She also wrote for Cornhill and Good Words. Her Poems, Legends, and Lyrics, were published in two volumes, 1858 and 1860. Died at London, Feb. 2, 1864. Her works were reissued in 1865, with an introduction by Charles Dickens.] A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

Is there within thy heart a need

That mine cannot fulfil? BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,

One chord that any other hand Or place my hand in thine,

Could better wake or still? Before I let thy future give

Speak now, - lest at some future day Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, question thy

my whole life wither and decay. soul to-night for me.

Lives there within thy nature hid I break all slighter bonds, nor feel

The demon-spirit Change, A shadow of regret:

Shedding a passing glory still Is there one link within the Past

On all things new and strange?That holds thy spirit yet?

It may not be thy fault alone, - but Or is thy faith as clear and free as that

shield my heart against thy OwR. which I can pledge to thee?

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one Does there within thy dimmest dreams day A possible-future shine,

And answer to my claim, Wherein thy life could henceforth That Fate, and that to-day's mistakebreathe,

Not thou — had been to blame? Untouched, unshared by mine? Some soothe their conscience thus; but If so, at any pain or cost, 0, tell me be

thou wilt surely warn and save fore all is lost.

me now.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel,

Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back,

While I have staked the whole,
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in

true mercy tell me so.

Nay, answer not, I dare not hear,

The words would come too late;
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,

So, comfort thee, my Fate,
Whatever on my heart may fall

member, I would risk it all!


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