.For when we came where lies the child

We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,

O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

"O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her, what I tell to thee.

"O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North.

"O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,

And cheep and twitter twenty million loves.

“O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

"Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love,

Delaying as the tender ash delays

To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

"O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: Say to her, I do but wanton in the South, But in the North long since my nest is made.

"O tell her, brief is life but love is long, And brief the sun of summer in the North, And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

"O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine,

And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee."

ALFRED TENNYSON.

SONG OF THE VIOLET.

A HUMBLE flower long time I pined
Upon the solitary plain,

And trembled at the angry wind,

And shrunk before the bitter rain.
And oh! 'twas in a blessed hour
A passing wanderer chanced to see,
And, pitying the lonely flower,
To stoop and gather me.

I fear no more the tempest rude,
On dreary heath no more I pine,
But left my cheerless solitude,

To deck the breast of Caroline.
Alas! our days are brief at best,
Nor long, I fear, will mine endure,
Though sheltered here upon a breast
So gentle and so pure.

It draws the fragrance from my leaves,

It robs me of my sweetest breath,
And every time it falls and heaves,

It warns me of my coming death.
But one I know would glad forego
All joys of life to be as I;

An hour to rest on that sweet breast,
And then, contented, die.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

LOVE IN A LIFE.

ROOM after room,

I hunt the house through

We inhabit together.

Heart, fear nothing, for, heart, thou shalt find her, Next time, herself! not the trouble behind her Left in the curtain, the couch's perfume!

As she brushed it, the cornice-wreath blossomed anew,

Yon looking-glass gleamed at the wave of her feather.

Yet the day wears,

And door succeeds door;

I try the fresh fortune,

Range the wide house from the wing to the centre.
Still the same chance! she goes out as I enter.
Spend my whole day in the quest, who cares?
But 'tis twilight, you see,- with such suits to explore,
Such closets to search, such alcoves to importune!

ROBERT BROWNING.