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But he never shall send our ancient

friend To be tossed on the stormy sea. Then here's to the oak, the brave

old oak,

Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green

tree,
When a hundred

years
gone!

are

LORD HOUGHTON
(RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES).

1809-1885. .[Born in 1809; a modern English politician, poet, and prosewriter. A few years after com. pleting his university course at Cambridge he was elected to Parliament, and distinguished himself as a zealous supporter of all questions relative to popular education and complete religious equal. ity. His literary efforts were various in kind and of an excellent character. His poetical works comprise Poems of Many Years, Memorials of Many Scenes, Poems Legendary and Historical, and Palm Leaves. He was also the author of the Life, Letters, and Literary Remains of John Keats, and a contributor to the Westminster Review.] GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;

The violets courtesied, and went to bed; MORNING.

And good little Lucy tied up her hair, A FAIR little girl sat under a tree And said, on her knees, her favorite Sewing as long as her eyes could see;

prayer. Then smoothed her work and folded it right,

And, while on her pillow she softly lay, And said, “Dear work, good night, She knew nothing more till again it good night!”

was day;

And all things said to the beautiful sun, Such a number of rooks came over her “Good morning, good morning! our head,

work is begun.” Crying “Caw, caw!” on their way to

bed, She said, as she watched their curious flight,

THE MEN OF OLD. “ Little black things, good night, good I KNOW not that the men of old night!”

Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,

bold, The sheep's “Bleat! bleat !” came over Of more ingenuous brow; the road;

I heed not those who pine for force All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, A ghost of time to raise, “Good little girl, good night, good As if they thus could check the course night!”

Of these appointed days. She did not say to the sun,

“ Good Still it is true, and over-true, night!”

That I delight to close Though she saw him there like a ball This book of life self-wise and new, of light;

And let my thoughts repose For she knew he had God's time to On all that humble happiness keep

The world has since foregone, All over the world and never could The daylight of contentedness sleep.

That on those faces shone !

With rights, though not too closely | Our hearts must die, except they breathe scanned,

The air of fresh desire.
Enjoyed as far as known,
With will by no reverse unmanned, Yet, brothers, who up reason's bill
With pulse of even tone,

Advance with hopeful cheer,They from to-day, and from to- Oh, loiter not, those heights are chill, night,

As chill as they are clear; Expected nothing more

And still restrain your haughty gaze Than yesterday and yesternight

The loftier that ye go, Had proffered them before. Remembering distance leaves a haze

On all that lies below.
To them was life a simple art

Of duties to be done,
A game where each man took his

THE BROOKSIDE.
part,
A race where all must run;
A battle whose great scheme and

I WANDERED by the brookside,

I wandered by the mill; scope They litile cared to know,

I could not hear the brook flow,Content, as men-at-arms, to cope

The noisy wheel was still; Each with his fronting foe.

There was no burr of grasshopper,

No chirp of any bird, Man now his virtue's diadem

But the beating of my own heart Puts on, and proudly wears. —

Was all the sound I heard. Great thoughts, great feelings, came

I sat beneath the elm-tree; to them, Like instincts unawares;

I watched the long, long shade, Blending their souls' sublimest needs

And, as it grew still longer, With tasks of every day

I did not feel afraid;

For I listened for a footfall, They went about their gravest deeds

I listened for a word, As noble boys at play.

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard. And what if Nature's fearful wound

They did not probe and bare, He came not, no, he came not, For that their spirits never swooned

The night came on alone, To watch the misery there,

The little stars sat one by one, For that their love but flowed more

Each on his golden throne; fast,

The evening wind passed by my cheek, Their charities more free,

The leaves above were stirred, Not conscious what mere drops they

But the beating of my own heart cast

Was all the sound I heard.
Into the evil sea.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
A man's best things are nearest him, When something stood behind;
Lie close about his feet;

A hand was on my shoulder, –
It is the distant and the dim

I knew its touch was kind : That we are sick to greet;

It drew me nearer, nearer, For flowers that grow our hands be. We did not speak one word, neath

For the beating of our own hearts We struggle and aspire; —

Was all the sound we heard.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

1809-1861. (Born at Herts, England, 1809. Published Prometheus Bound and other poems, 1835; the Seraphim and other poems, 1838; Romaunt of the Page, 1839; two volumes of Poems, 1844; married Robert Browning, 1846, and went with him to reside in Italy; published in 1850 her Bollected works, including The Drama of Exile and Lady Geraldine's Courtship; among her other poems are Casa Guidi Windows, 1851; Aurora Leigh, 1856; Poems before Congress, 1860. ^ The Last Poems were published posthumously in 1862, with a dedication to “grateful Florence,” in allusion to the inscription on the tablet which after her death the city of Florence had put up in her honor. She died at Florence, June 29, 1861, with the reputation of being the greatest poetess England had ever produced.]

COWPER'S GRAVE. It is a place where poets crowned may With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn feel the hearts' decaying

to think upon him, It is a place where happy saints may With meekness that is gratefulness to weep amid their praying:

God whose heaven hath won Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low

him as silence, languish!

Who suffered once the madness-cloud to Earth surely now may give her calm to

His own love to blind him, whom she gave her anguish. But gently led the blind along where

breath and bird could find him; poets! from a maniac's tongue was

poured the deathless singing! And wrought within his shatter'd brain, () Christians! at your cross of hope a

such quick poetic senses hopeless hand was clinging! As hills have language for, and stars, O men! this man in brotherhood your

harmonious influences ! weary paths beguiling,

The pulse of dew upon the grass kept Groaned inly while he taught you peace,

his within its number, and died while ye were smiling! And silent shadow from the trees re

freshed him like a slumber. And now, what time ye all may read

through dimming tears his story, Wild timid hares were drawn from How discord on the music fell, and

woods to share his home-caresses, darkness un the glory,

Uplooking to his human eyes with sylAnd how, when one by one, sweet

van tendernesses; sounds and wandering lights de- The very world, by God's constraint, parted,

from falsehood's ways removing, He wore no less a loving face because Its women and its men became beside so broken-hearted.

him true and loving.

He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's But while in blindness he remained unhigh vocation;

conscious of the guiding, And bow the meekest Christian down And things provided came without the in meeker adoration;

sweet sense of providing, Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise He testified this solemn truth though or good forsaken,

phrenzy desolated Named softly as the household name of Nor man nor nature satisfy, whom only one whom God hath taken.

God created!

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move

cess

ness

care

Back straightway to the fields and I saw, in gradual vision through my gather more?

tears, Another, sooth, may do it, but not I! The sweet, sad years, the melancholy My heart is very tired, my strength is

years, low,

Those of my own life, who by turns My hands are full of blossoms plucked

had Aung before,

A shadow across me. Straightway I Held dead within them till myself

was ’ware,
shall die.

So weeping, how a mystic Shape did
Behind me, and drew me backward by

the hair;
GRIEF.

And a voice said in mastery while I

strove,

“ Guess I TELL you, hopeless grief is passion

now who holds thee?. less;

“Death,” I said. But, there, That only men incredulous of despair,

The silver answer rang, — “Not Death, Half-taught in anguish, through the

but Love." midnight air Beat upward to God's throne in loud ac

Thou hast thy calling to some palace Of shrieking and reproach. Full desert- floor,

Most gracious singer of high poems! In souls as countries lieth silent-bare

where Under the blanching vertical eye-glare

The dancers will break footing from the Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death

And dost thou lift this house's latch, too Most like a monumental statue set

poor In everlasting watch and moveless woe,

For hand of thine? and canst thou Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.

think and bear Touch it; the marble eyelids are not

To let thy music drop here unaware wet:

In folds of golden fulness at my door? If it could weep, it could arise and go. Look up and see the casement broken in,

The bats and owlets builders in the

roof! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

Hush! call no echo up in further proof SONNETS FROM THE PORTU- Of desolation ! there's a voice within GUESE.

as thou must sing-alone,

aloof. I THOUGHT once how Theocritus had

sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall

stand Who each one in a gracious hand ap- Henceforward in thy shadow. Neverpears

more To bear a gift for mortals, old or Alone upon the threshold of my door young :

Of individual life, I shall command And, as I mused it in his antique The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand tongue,

Serenely in the sunshine as before,

more.

That weeps

for years,

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