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Where, in laughing and in sobbing,
Glide the streams away.
Throbbing for the May.
Ah! my heart is sore with sighing,
Sighing for the May, —
All the winter lay.
Sighing for the May.
Throbbing for the May, – Throbbing for the seaside billows, Or the water-wooing willows;
Waiting sad, dejected, weary,
Waiting for the May:
Life still ebbs away;
Waiting for the May!
(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
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.
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
But this I trust is clearly understood;
or woman, if adored or
hatedWhoever own'd this Skull was not so
good, Nor quite so bad as many may have
Did she live yesterday or ages back?
or black, Poor little head! that long has done
Who love can need no special type of
(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,
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!
“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
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!
Nor let thy bawling fellows rack
their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot
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
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
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,
corn All the live murmur of a summer's day.
Piping a ditty sad for Bion's fate; And cross the unpermitted ferry's
And relax Pluto's brow,
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
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!
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
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,
See him come back, and cut a
They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore Charge once more, then, and be dumb! thee?
Let the victors, when they come,
(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!
Take her away from me, 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,
When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, 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,
And the rose that used to be red.
But I think it's not in my head;
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,