The stile beside the spreading pine,
The pleasant fields beyond the grove,
The lawn where, underneath the vine,
She sang the song I used to love.

The path along the windy beach,
That leaves the shadowy linden tree,
And goes by sandy capes that reach
Their shining arms to clasp the sea.

I view them all, I tread once more
In meadow-grasses cool and deep;
I walk beside the sounding shore,
I climb again the wooded steep.

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Oh, happy hours of pure delight!

Sweet moments drowned in wells of bliss!
Oh, halcyon days so calm and bright-

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Each morn and evening seemed to kiss!

And that whereon I saw her first,

While angling in the noisy brook,

When through the tangled wood she burst;
In one small hand a glove and book,

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As with the other, dimpled, white,

She held the slender boughs aside,

While through the leaves the yellow light

Like golden water seemed to glide,

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And broke in ripples on her neck,
And played like fire around her hat,
And slid adown her form to fleck
The moss-grown rock on which I sat.

She standing rapt in sweet surprise,
And seeming doubtful if to turn;

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Her novel, as I raised my eyes,

Dropped down amid the tall green fern.

This day and that-the one so bright,
The other like a thing forlorn;
To-morrow, and the early light
Will shine upon her marriage morn.
For when the mellow autumn flushed
The thickets where the chestnut fell,
And in the vales the maple blushed,
Another came who knew her well,

Who sat with her below the pine,

And with her through the meadow moved,
And underneath the purpling vine

She sang to him the song I loved.

CCLXX

SONG.

Nathaniel G. Shepherd.

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Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;

The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answered thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are sealed:
I strove against the stream and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main :
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

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Alfred Tennyson.

CCLXXI

THE VIOLET.

Oh faint, delicious, spring-time violet,

Thine odour, like a key,

Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let

A thought of sorrow free.

The breath of distant fields upon my brow

Blows through that open door,

The sound of wind-borne bells, more sweet and low
And sadder than of yore.

It comes afar, from that beloved place,

And that beloved hour,

When life hung ripening in love's golden grace,

Like grapes above a bower.

A spring goes singing through its reedy grass,
A lark sings o'er my head,

Drowned in the sky-O pass, ye visions, pass,

I would that I were dead!—

Why hast thou opened that forbidden door

From which I ever flee?

O vanished Joy! O Love that art no more,
Let my vexed spirit be!

O violet! thy odour through my brain
Hath searched, and stung to grief

This sunny day, as if a curse did stain

Thy velvet leaf.

CCLXXII
JOY.

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William W. Story.

Sweet order hath its draught of bliss
Graced with the pearl of God's consent,

Ten times ecstatic in that 'tis

Considerate and innocent.

In vain disorder grasps the cup;
The pleasure's not enjoyed, but spilt;
And, if he stoops to lick it up,

It only tastes of earth and guilt;
His sorry raptures rest destroys;
To live, like comets they must roam;
On settled poles turn solid joys,

And sun-like pleasures shine at home.

CCLXXIII

Coventry Patmore.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND.

He safely walks in darkest ways,
Whose youth is lighted from above,
Where through the senses' silvery haze
Dawns the veiled moon of nuptial love.

Who is the happy husband? He,
Who scanning his unwedded life,
Thanks Heaven, with a conscience free,
'Twas faithful to his future wife.

CCLXXIV

THEN.

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Coventry Patmore.

I give thee treasures hour by hour,
That old-time princes asked in vain,
And pined for in their useless power,
Or died of passion's eager pain.

I give thee love as God gives light,
Aside from merit, or from prayer,
Rejoicing in its own delight,
And freer than the lavish air.

I give thee prayers, like jewels strung
On golden threads of hope and fear;
And tenderer thoughts than ever hung
In a sad angel's pitying tear.

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As earth pours freely to the sea

Her thousand streams of wealth untold,
So flows my silent life to thee,
Glad that its very sands are gold.

What care I for thy carelessness?
I give from depths that overflow,
Regardless that their power to bless
Thy spirit cannot sound or know.

Far lingering on a distant dawn
My triumph shines, more sweet than late;
When from these mortal mists withdrawn,
Thy heart shall know me--I can wait.

Rose Terry.

CCLXXV

THE PRINCE OF ORANGE IN 1672.

If the base violence of wicked men

Prevail at last; if Charles, to please his lord,
And Louis, for his glory much concerned,
Must needs snatch from us our sea-rescued plains,
Which soon the tides will make their own again,
When once the strenuous freemen shall have fled,
At whose command they ebbed with angry bark;
If France must needs prevail and we must yield,
Then we will yield our lands, but not ourselves.
Ships we have left that will contain, I judge,
Two hundred thousand steadfast Hollanders ;
And 'twixt the realms where our oppressors live
A heaving highway lies, to Dutchmen known,
And to be known hereafter in all lands-
The highway of the exodus of freedom!

Prepare then for departure, citizens;

And for the little space that yet remains,

Make much of home and of your fatherland;

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