BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

Alfred Tennyson was born at Lincolnshire in 1809. In 1828 he wrote, with his brother, the "Poems by Two Brothers." He went to Trinity College, Cambridge, where he met his friend, Arthur Hallam, upon whose death he wrote "In Memoriam." When Wordsworth died in 1850, the laureateship was given to Tennyson; later he was made a Baron. He died at Aldworth, on the Isle of Wight, in 1892, and has been given a place in Westminster Abbey near the grave of Chaucer. Other of his longer poems beside the one mentioned above are: "The Princess," "Maud," "Enoch Arden," and the "Idyls of the King."

THERE IS NO DEATH.

BY J. L. MCCREERY.

This beautifully touching poem is the creation of Mr. J. L. McCreery, a native of Iowa, and at one time editor of the Delaware County Journal, of that state. The poem was written in 1863 and was first published in Arthur's Home Magazine in July of that year. The authorship of the poem was for many years erroneously attributed to Lord Lytton, the English poet. A thorough investigation carried on by Lippincott's a few years ago fully established the authorship. The poem has been printed in every state of the Union, in England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Canada, and even in Australia. It has gone into dozens of school books and been incorporated in scores of miscellaneous collections of poetry. It has been quoted in full or in part at least five times on the floor of Congress. Mr. McCreery has for the past few years been a resident of the national capital and his best poems have been collected into a volume entitled "Songs of Toil and Triumph."

There is no death, the stars go down
To rise upon some other shore,
And bright in heaven's jeweled crown
They shine forever more.

There is no death! the forest leaves
Convert to life the viewless air;

The rocks disorganize to feed

The hungry moss they bear.

There is no death! the dust we tread

Shall change, beneath the summer showers,

To golden grain, or mellow fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.

There is no death! the leaves may fall,

The flowers may fade and pass away

They only wait, through wintry hours,
The warm, sweet breath of May.

There is no death! the choicest gifts

That heaven hath kindly lent to earth Are ever first to seek again

The country of their birth.

And all things that for growth of joy,
Are worthy of our love or care,
Whose loss has left us desolate,
Are safely garnered there.

Though life become a dreary waste,
We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,
Transplanted into paradise,

Adorn immortal bowers.

The voice of bird-like melody

That we have missed and mourned so long

Now mingles with the angel choir

In everlasting song.

There is no death! although we grieve
When beautiful, familiar forms
That we have learned to love are torn
From our embracing arms.

Although with bowed and breaking heart,
With sable garb and silent tread,
We bear their senseless dust to rest,
And say that they are "dead."

They are not dead! they have but passed
Beyond the mists that blind us here

Into the new and larger life

Of that serener sphere.

They have but dropped their robe of clay
To put their shining raiment on;
They have not wandered far away—
They are not "lost" or "gone."

Though disenthralled and glorified,
They still are here and love us yet;
The dear ones they have left behind
They never can forget.

And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint
Amid temptations fierce and deep,
Or when the wildly raging waves
Of grief or passion sweep,

We feel upon our fevered brow

Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;

Their arms enfold us, and our hearts
Grow comforted and calm.

Edward Rowland Sill was born at Windsor, Conn., April 29, 1841; died in Cleveland, O., Feb. 27, 1887. He was graduated from Yale in 1861;

studied biology at Harvard, did literary work in New York City, taught school in California and Ohio, and was for eight years professor of English language and literature in the University of California. His poems were privately printed under the title "The Hermitage and Other Poems."

The royal feast was done; the king

Sought some new sport to banish care,

And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,

And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart

From red with wrong to white as wool;

The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,

Be merciful to me, a fool!