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Where, in laughing and in sobbing,

Glide the streams away.
Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing,

Throbbing for the May.

Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May, —
Sighing for their sure returning,
When the summer beams are burning,
Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying,

All the winter lay.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,

Sighing for the May.
Ah! my heart is pained with throb.

bing,

Throbbing for the May, – Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows;

Waiting sad, dejected, weary,

Waiting for the May:
Spring goes by with wasted warnings, -
Moonlit evening. , sunbright mornings,-
Summer comes, yet dark and dreary

Life still ebbs away;
Man is ever weary, weary,

Waiting for the May!

FREDERICK LOCKER.

1821

(BORN in 1821, son of Mr. E. H. Locker, a civil commissioner of Greenwich Hospital, and founder of the Naval Gallery there. Mr. Locker has contributed reviews to the Times, and verses to the Times, Blackwood, the Cornhill, and Punch, which have been collected in a volume called London Lyrics. His Poems have also been recently published in this country.] A HUMAN SKULL.

It may have held (to shoot some ranA HUMAN Skull! I bought it passing

dom shots) cheap,

Thy brains, Eliza Fry! or Baron ByIndeed 'twas dearer to its first em

ron's; ployer!

The wits of Nelly Gwynn, or Doctor

Watts I thought mortality did well to keep Some mute memento of the Old De- Two quoted bards. Two philanstroyer.

thropic sirens.

Time was, some may have prized its

blooming skin; Her lips were woo'd, perhaps, in

transport tender; Some may have chuck'd what was a

dimpled chin, And never had my doubt about its

gender.

But this I trust is clearly understood;
If man

or woman, if adored or

hatedWhoever own'd this Skull was not so

good, Nor quite so bad as many may have

stated.

Did she live yesterday or ages back?
What color were the eyes when bright

and waking?
And were your ringlets fair, or brown,

or black, Poor little head! that long has done

with aching?

Who love can need no special type of

Death;
Death steals his icy hand where Love

reposes;
Alas for love, alas for fleeting breath-
Immortelles bloom with Beauty's

bridal roses.

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MATTHEW ARNOLD.

1822-1888.

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(ELDEST son of the late Rev. Thos. Arnold, D.D., head-master of Rugby, born Dec. 24, 1822, at Laleham, Middlesex Co. Educated at Winchester, Rugby, and Baliol ege, Oxford; graduated in 1844, and was elected a Fellow of Oriel College in 1845. Secretary to Lord Lansdowne from 1847 to 1851, when he was appointed one of the Lay Inspectors of Schools, under the Com. mittee of Council on Education, a post which he still holds. In 1854 he published a voluine of Poems under his own name, his previous volumes in 1848 and 1853 having been published without the name of the author. Elecied Profe-sor of Poetry at Oxford in 1857, which office he held till 1867. He has published several volumes of Poems and Essays, which are highly esteemed. “The strain of his mind," says an anonymous critic, " is calm and thoughtful; his style is the reverse of florid: deep culture, and a certain severity of taste have subdued every tendency to gay or passionate exuberance."'] YOUTH'S AGITATIONS. “ Christ," some one says,

was human

as we are; WHEN I shall be divorced, some ten

No judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin years hence,

to scan; From this poor present self which I am now;

We live no more, when we have done When youth has done its tedious vain

our span.”— expense Of passions that for ever ebb and

“Well, then, for Christ,” thou answer

est, “who can care? flow;

From sin, which Heaven records not,

why forbear? Shall I not joy youth's heats are left

Live we like brutes our life without a behind, And breathe more happy in an even

plan!” clime? Ah no, for then I shall begin to find

So answerest thou; but why not rather A thousand virtues in this hated time!

say:

“Hath man no second life? - Pitch this Then I shall wish its agitations back,

one high !

Sits tiiere no judge in Heaven, our sin And all its thwarting currents of de

to see? sire;

Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,

More strictly, then, the inward judge And call this hurrying fever, generous

obey !

Was Christ a man like us? - Ah ! let fire;

us try And sigh that one thing only has been

If we then, too, can be such men as he !'' lent To youth and age in common discontent.

FROM "THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY."

Go, for they call you, shepherd, from tho THE BETTER PART,

hill; Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled man,

cotes! How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler No longer leave thy wistful flock fare!

unfed,

Nor let thy bawling fellows rack

their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot

another head;

But when the helds 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 last

shall heed For Time, not Corydon, hath con

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

mate, Some good survivor with his fute

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

corn All the live murmur of a summer's day.

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

flow,

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

beauteous head
Of Proserrine, among whose crown-

ed hair Are flowerstirstopen'cion 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!

a

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

forest-ways,

And scent of hay new-mown. But Thyrsis never more we swains

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;

See him come back, and cut a

smoother reed,

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.

1824-1874.

(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 edition of his poems was published in 1875.1 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-bedSend 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!

I don't know how it be, boys,
My old cyes can't bear, boys,

When all's done and said,
To see him in the shed;
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 hills are wizen and thin,

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