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LEWIS MORRIS.

1833– (Born in Carmarthen, Wales, in 1833; graduated at Jesus College, Oxford, in 1855 as first class in classics and chancellor's prize-man; called to the bar at Lincoln's Inn, 1861. Has held numerous positions of trust in Wales, where he resides. In 1871-4-5, appeared the three volumes of Songs of Two Worlds. In 1876-77 The Epic of Hades, Books I., II., and III., were pub lished. Gwin, a Drama in Monologue, appeared in 1878, and in March, 1880, The Ode of Life. The above have hitherto appeared anonymously as the work of "A New Writer,” but a new edition is announced for publication under the author's name. His latest work, Songs Unsung, appeared in 1883.] ONE DAY.

Ah, not the feeling, but the sky One day, one day, our lives shall seem

We change, however far we fly;

How swift soe'er our bark may speed,
Thin as a brief forgotten dream:

Faster the blessed isles recede.
One day, our souls by life opprest,
Shall ask no other boon than rest.

Nay, let us seek at home to find

Fit harvest for the brooding mind, And shall no hope nor longing come, And find, since thus the world grows No memory of our former home,

fair, No yearning for the loved, the dear

Duty and pleasure everywhere. Dead lives that are no longer here?

Oh well-worn road, oh homely way, If this be age, and age no more

Where pace our footsteps, day by day, Recall the hopes, the fears of yore, The homestead and the church which The dear dead mother's accents mild,

bound The lisping of the little child,

The tranquil seasons' circling round !
Come, Death, and slay us ere the blood

Ye hold experiences which reach
Run slow, and turn our lives from good, | Depths which no change of skies can
For only in such memories we

teach, Consent to linger and to be.

The saintly thought, the secret strife
Which guide, which do perturb our

life.

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There through the sweet and toilsome

day,
To labor is to pray;
There love with kindly beaming eyes
Prepares the sacrifice;

And voice and innocent smile
Of childhood do our cheerful liturgies

beguile.
There, at his chaste and frugal feast,
Love sitteth as a Priest;
And with mild eyes and mien sedate,
His deacons stand and wait;

And round the holy table
Paten and chalice range in order ser-

viceable.

And when ere night, the vespers said,
Low lies each weary head,
What giveth He who gives them sleep,
But a brief death less deep?

Or what the fair dreams given
But ours who, daily dying, dream a hap-

pier heaven?
Then not within a cloistered wall
Will we expend our days;
But dawns that break and eves that

fall
Shall bring their dues of praise.

This best befits a Ruler always near,
This duteous worship mild, and reason-

able fear.

QIR

LE

WILLIAM MORRIS.

1834[Born near London in 1834. Educated at Forest School, Walthamstow, at Marlborough, and at Exeter College, Oxford. Studied painting, but did not succeed in that profession. In 1858, published The Defence of Guenevere, and Other Poems. In 1863, with several partners, he started in London an establishment for the artistic designing and manufacturing of various articles, especially wall paper, stained glass, tiles, and household decorations. At this business he has wrought as a designer, devoting his leisure to the composition of poetry. He published in 1867 The Life and Death of Jason ; The Earthly Paradise, in 3 vols., 1868-1870. His later publications are The Æneid of Virgil done into English Verse, 1876; The Story of Sigurd, the Volsung, and The Fall of the Niblungs, 1877. He has also aided in the work of translating sev. eral volumes from the Icelandic.] THE CHAPEL IN LYONESS.

A samite cloth of white and red;

A rose lay on my face.
OZANA

CURE HARDY. SIR
GALAHAD. SIR BORS DE GANYS. Many a time I tried to shout;

But as in dream of battle-rout,
SIR OZANA.

My frozen speech would not well out; ALL day long and every day,

I could not even weep.
From Christmas-Eve to Whit-Sunday,
Within that Chapel-aisle I lay,

With inward sigh I see the sun
And no man came a-near.

Fade off the pillars one by one,

My heart faints when the day is done, Naked to the waist was I,

Because I cannot sleep. And deep within my breast did lie, Sometimes strange thoughts passthrough Though no man any blood could spy,

my head; The truncheon of a spear.

Not like a tomb is this my bed,

Yet oft I think that I am dead;
No meat did ever pass my lips.

That round my tomb is writ,
Those days -- (Alas! the sunlight slips
From off the gilded parclose, dips,

“ Ozana of the hardy heart, And night comes on apace.)

Knight of the Table Round,

Pray for his soul, lords, of your part; My arms lay back behind my head; A true knight he was found.” Over my raised-up knees was spread Ah! me, I cannot fathom it. He sleeps.

SIR GALAHAD.
All day long and every day,
Till his madness pass'd away,
I watch'd Ozana as he lay

Within the gilded screen.
All my singing moved him not;
As I sung my heart grew hot,
With the thought of Launcelot

Far away, I ween.
So I went a little space
From out the chapel, bathed my face
In the stream that runs apace

By the churchyard wall.
There I pluck'd a faint wild rose,
Hard by where the linden grows,
Sighing over silver rows

Of the lilies tall.
I laid the flower across his mouth;
The sparkling drops seem'd good for

drouth; He smiled, turn'd round towards the

south, Held up a golden tress. The light smote on it from the west : He drew the covering from his breast, Against his heart that hair he prest;

Death him soon will bless.

“ Ozana of the hardy heart,

Knight of the Table Round, Pray for his soul, lords, on your part,

A good knight he was found.” Now I begin to fathom it.

He dies. SIR BORS. Galahad sits dreamily; What strange things may his eyes see, Great blue eyes fix'd full on me? On his soul, Lord, have mercy.

SIR GALAHAD. Ozana, shall I pray for thee?

Her cheek is laid to thine; No long time hence, also I see

Thy wasted fingers twine Within the tresses of her hair

That shineth gloriously, Thinly outspread in the clear air

Against the jasper sea.

SIR BORS.
I enter'd by the western door;

I saw a knight's helm lying there:
I raised my eyes from off the floor,

And caught the gleaming of his hair. I stept full softly up to him;

I laid my chin upon his head;
I felt him smile; my eyes did swim,

I was so glad he was not dead.
I heard Ozana murmur low,

“There comes no sleep nor any love.” But Galahad stoop'd and kiss'd his brow: He shiver'd; I saw his pale lips move.

SIR OZANA.
There comes no sleep nor any love;

Ah me! I shiver with delight.
I am so weak I cannot move;

God move me to thee, dear, to-night! Christ help! I have but little wit:

My life went wrong; I see it writ,

FROM THE EARTHLY PARA

DISE."

INTRODUCTION.
Of Heaven or Hell I have no power

to sing, I cannot ease the burden of your fears, Or make quick-coming death a little

thing, Or bring again the pleasure of past years, Nor for my words shall ye forget your

tears, Or hope again for aught that I can say, The idle singer of an empty day. But rather, when aweary of your

mirth, From full hearts still unsatisfied ye sigh, And, feeling kindly unto all the earth, Grudge every minute as it passes by, Made the more mindful that the sweet

days die

Remember me a little then I pray, The idle singer of an empty day.

The heavy trouble, the bewildering

care

That weighs us down who live and earn

our bread, These idle verses have no power to bear;

So let me sing of names remembered,
Because they, living not, can ne'er be

dead,
Or long time take their memory quite

away From us poor singers of an empty day. Dreamer of dreams, born out of my

due time, Why should I strive to set the crooked

straight? Let it suffice me that my murmuring

rhyme Beats with light wing against the ivory

gate, Telling

a tale not too importunate To those who in the sleepy region stay, Lulled by the singer of an empty day.

Folk say, a wizard to a northern king At Christmas-tide such wondrous things

did show,

That through one window men beheld

the spring, And through another saw the summer

glow, And through a third the fruited vines

a-row, While still, unheard, but in its wonted

way,
Piped the drear wind of that December

day.
So with this Earthly Paradise it is,
If ye will read aright, and pardon me,
Who strive to build a shadowy isle of

bliss
Midmost the beating of the steely sea,
Where tossed about all hearts of men

must be; Whose ravening monsters mighty men

shall slay, Not the poor singer of an empty day.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

1837(Son of the late Admiral Charles Henry Swinburne; born in London, April 5, 1837. He entered Balliol College, Oxford, in 1857, but left the University without taking a degree. He afterwards visited Florence and spent some time with Walter Savage Landor. His first production, The Queen Mother, and Rosamond, two plays, appeared in 1861. These were followed by Atalanta in Calydon, a' Tragedy, in 1864; Chastelard, a Tragedy, in 1865; and Poems and Ballads, in 1866; published in New York under the title Laus Veneris. His later poetical works are A Song of Italy, 1867; Siena, a Poem, 1868; Bothwell, a Tragedy, 1870; Songs before Sunrise, 1871; Erechtheus, a drama on the Greek model, 1875; Poems and Ballads, (second series) 1878; Studies in Song, 1881; Tristam of Lyonesse, 1882; and A Century of Roundels, 1883.]

Come with bows bent and with emptyFROM "ATALANTA IN CALYDON."

ing of quivers, CHORUS.

Maiden most perfect, lady of light, When the hounds of spring are on

With a noise of winds and many winter's traces,

rivers, The mother of months in meadow or With a clamor of waters, and with plain

might; Fills the shadows and windy places Bind on thy sandals, 0 thou most With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain;

fleet, And the brown bright nightingale Over the splendor, and speed of thy

feet; Is half assuaged for Itylus,

For the faint east quickens, the wan For the Thracian ships and the foreign west shivers, faces,

Round the feet of the day and the feet The tongueless vigil, and all the pain.

of the night.

amorous

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