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Ah me! in what immortal hour of time,

Under what star, in what enchanted weather, In what new Eden, in what fairy clime,

Nature, shall thy perfections meet together? When youthful hearts, rejoicing in their May,

Shall bide in cheerful faith the unborn hour, And the wise spirit not regret the day

That brings the fruit, but takes away the flower ? When Hope and Love, so lavish of delight,

Shall laugh and sing, yet crown their early years With those rare buds, more odorous than bright,

And that wise spirit, now the growth of tears ?

Ah! vexed Life, there is no other wand

But Death's cold finger-take him for thy friend; He leadeth Truth and Beauty hand in hand, He brings thee Youth and Knowledge without end.

FREDERICK TENNYSON.

THE HONEYSUCKLE.

I
PLUCKED a honeysuckle where

The hedge on high is quick with thorn,
And climbing for the prize, was torn,
And fouled my feet in quag water;

And by the thorns and by the wind

The blossom that I took was thinn’d,
And yet I found it sweet and fair.

Thence to a richer growth I came,

Where, nursed in mellow intercourse,

The honeysuckles sprang by scores, Not harried like my single stem,

All virgin lamps of scent and dew.

So from my hand that first I threw, Yet plucked not any more of them.

DANTE G. ROSSETTI.

SYMBOLS.

I
WATCHED a rosebud very long,

Brought on by dew and sun and shower,
Waiting to see the perfect flower.
Then, when I thought it should be strong,

It opened at the matin hour
And fell at evensong.
I watched a nest from day to day,

A green nest full of pleasant shade,

Wherein three speckled eggs were laid : But when they should have hatched in May The two old birds had

grown

afraid Or tired, and flew away. Then, in my wrath, I broke the bough

That I had tended so with care,

Hoping its scent should fill the air : I crushed the eggs, not heeding how

Their ancient promise had been fair; I would have vengeance now.

E

But the dead branch spoke from the sod,

And the eggs answered me again :

Because we failed dost thou complain ? Is thy wrath just? And what if God,

Who waiteth for thy fruits in vain, Should also take the rod ?

CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.

ÆOLIAN HARP.
WHAT is it that is gone, we fancied ours ?

O what is lost that never may be told ?-
We stray all afternoon, and we may grieve
Until the perfect closing of the night.
Listen to us,

thou
grey autumnal

eve,
Whose part is silence. At thy verge the clouds
Are broken into melancholy gold;
The waifs of autumn and the feeble flowers
Glimmer along our woodlands in wet light;
Because within thy deep thou hast the shrouds
Of joy and great adventure, waxing cold,
Which once, or so it seemed, were full of might.
Some power it was, that lives not with us now,
A thought we had, but could not, could not hold.
() sweetly, swiftly passed !-air sings and murmurs;
Green leaves are gathering on the dewy bough:
O sadly, swiftly passed !-air sighs and mutters;
Red leaves are dropping on the rainy mould.
Then comes the snow, unfeatured, vast, and white.
O what is gone from us, we fancied ours ?

WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.

THE SEA-LIMITS.

CONS

ONSIDER the sea's listless chime :

Time's self it is, made audible,

The murmur of the earth's own shell. Secret continuance sublime

Is the sea's end : our sight may pass

No furlong further. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time.

No quiet, which is death's,-it hath

The mournfulness of ancient life,

Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath,

Its painful pulse is in the sands.

Last utterly, the whole sky stands, Grey and not known, along its path.

Listen alone beside the sea,

Listen alone among the woods ;

These voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to thee :

Hark where the murmurs of thronged men

Surge and sink back and surge again,Still the one voice of wave and tree.

Gather a shell from the strown beach

And listen at its lips : they sigh

The same desire and mystery, The echo of the whole sea's speech.

And all mankind is thus at heart

Not any thing but what thou art : And Earth, Sea, Man, are all in each.

DANTE G. ROSSETTI.

TO DAFFODILS.

FAIR
AIR Daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attained his noon :

Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the even-song;
And, having prayed together, we

Will go with you along !

We have short time to stay as you,
We have as short a Spring ;
As quick a growth to meet decay
As you, or any thing :

We die
As your hours do; and dry

Away
Like to the Summer's rain,
Or as the pearls of morning dew,
Ne'er to be found again.

ROBERT HERRICK.

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