ACROSS the gap made by our English hinds,
Amidst the Roman's handiwork, behold

Far off the long-roofed church; the shepherd binds
The withy round the hurdles of his fold;
Down in the foss the river fed of old,

That through long lapse of time has grown to be
The little grassy valley that you see.

Rest here awhile, not yet the eve is still, The bees are wandering yet, and you may hear The barley mowers on the trenched hill, The sheep-bells, and the restless changing weir, All little sounds made musical and clear Beneath the sky that burning August gives, While yet the thought of glorious Summer lives.

Ah, love! such happy days, such days as these, Must we still waste them, craving for the best, Like lovers o'er the painted images

Of those who once their yearning hearts have blessed?

Have we been happy on our day of rest?

Thine eyes say 66

yes," but if it came again,

Perchance its ending would not seem so vain.

William Morris.

ENDYMION.

LEADING the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd's song; Each having a white wicker, overbrimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books: Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'erflowing die

I

In music, through the vales of Thessaly:
Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground,
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
With ebon-tipped flutes; close after these,
Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
A venerable priest full soberly,

Begirt with ministering looks: alway his eye
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,

And after him his sacred vestments swept.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;
And in his left he held a basket full

Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull :
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still

Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.

Keats.

(LOVE'S PERVERSITY.)

How strange a thing a lover seems
To animals that do not love.

Lo, where he walks and talks in dreams,
And flouts us with his lady's glove;
How foreign is the garb he wears;
And how his great devotion mocks
Our poor propriety, and scares
The undevout with paradox!

His soul, through scorn of worldly care,
And great extremes of sweet and gall,
And musing much on all that's fair,
Grows witty and fantastical;
He sobs his joy and sings his grief,

And evermore finds such delight

116

THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE.

In simply picturing his relief,

That 'plaining seems to cure his plight ; He makes his sorrow when there's none; His fancy blows both cold and hot; Next to the wish that she'll be won, His first hope is that she may not ; He sues, yet deprecates consent; Would she be captured she must fly; She looks too happy and content,

For whose least pleasure he would die; Oh, cruelty, she cannot care

For one to whom she's always kind.
He says he's nought, but, oh, despair!
If he's not Jove to her fond mind!
He's jealous if she pets a dove,

She must be his with all her soul;
Yet 'tis a postulate in love

That part is greater than the whole,
And all his apprehension's stress,

When he's with her, regards her hair,
Her hand, a ribbon of her dress,
As if his life were only there;
Because she's constant, he will change,
And kindest glances coldly meet,
And, all the time he seems so strange,
His soul is fawning at her feet;