by one,

Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon!

Not in vain the distant beacons. Forward, forward let us range.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Thro' the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day:

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!

Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall.

Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,

Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt.

Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail or fire or snow!

For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.

TENNYSON.

MAUD MULLER.

AUD MULLER, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glow'd the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing fill'd her breast,-
A wish that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane,
He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple trees, to greet the maid;

And ask'd a draught from the spring that flow'd Through the meadow across the road.

And blush'd as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tatter'd gown.

.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, “a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaff'd."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees
Of the singing birds and the humming bees,
Then talk'd of the haying, and wonder'd whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown:
And listen'd, while a pleased surprise
Look'd from her long-lash'd hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller look'd and sigh'd: "Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

66

My father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,

And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"And I'd feed the hungry, and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge look'd back as he climbed the hill,
And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
"Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:
"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,
"But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode ɔn,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he humm'd in court an old love-tune.

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow
He watch'd a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Look'd out in their innocent surprise.

Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He long'd for the wayside well instead,
And clos'd his eyes on his garnish'd rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.
And the proud man sigh'd, with a secret pain:
"Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day,

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."
She wedded a man unlearn'd and poor,
And many children play'd round her door.
But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall,
In the shade of the apple tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretch'd away into stately halls:
The weary wheel to a spinnet turn'd,
The tallow candle an astral burn'd,
And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty, and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been."
Alas for maiden; alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge!

The beggar is taxed for a corner to die in ; The priest has his fee who comes and shrieves us; We bargain for the graves we lie in ; At the Devil's booth are all things sold, Each ounce of dross costs its ounce of gold; For a cap and bells our lives we pay, Bubbles we buy with the whole soul's tasking; 'Tis heaven alone that is given away, 'Tis only God may be had for the asking; No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer. And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;

Every clod feels a stir of might,

An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers. Now is the high-tide of the year,

And whatever of life hath ebbed away Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer. Into every bare inlet and creek and bay ; Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, We are happy now because God wills it; No matter how barren the past may have been, The soul partakes the season's youth, And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe

Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth, Like burnt-out craters healed with snow. LOWELL.

LONGING FOR HOME.

THE BELLS OF SHANDON.

ITH deep affection

And recollection

I often think of

Those Shandon bells,

Whose sounds so wild would,

In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.

On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
Sweet Cork, of thee,-
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling

"Old Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling

From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame.

But the sounds are sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,

Pealing solemnly,-
O, the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

There's a bell in Moscow,

While on tower and kiosk O

In St. Sophia

The Turkman gets, And loud in air

Calls men to prayer,

From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom
I freely grant them;
But there's an anthem
More dear to me,—
'Tis the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters

Of the river Lee.

FATHER PROUT.

HERE once was a nest in a hollow,

Down in the mosses and knot-grass press'd,

Soft and warm and full to the brim;
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim;
With buttercup buds to follow.

I pray you hear my song of a nest,
For it is not long ;-

You shall never light in a summer quest

The bushes among

Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know

A softer sound than their tender twitter,
That wind-like did come and go.

I had a nestful once of my own-
Ah, happy, happy 1!

Right dearly I loved them; but when they were

grown

They spread out their wings to fly.

Oh, one after one they flew away,

Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day;
And I wish I was going too.

I pray you, what is the nest to me,
My empty nest?

And what is the shore where I stood to see
My boat sail down to the west?

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,

Though my good man has sailed?
Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope has failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,
And the land where my nestlings be;
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me—

Ah, me!

INGELOW.

MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS.

Y minde to me a kingdome is;
Such perfect joy therein I finde

As far exceeds all earthly blisse

That God or nature hath assignde. Though much I want, that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave.