M A FAREWELL Y fairest child, I have no song to give you; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray: Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. * I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn on breezy down; To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song. -Charles Kingsley. * This is printed in Max Müller's memoirs—“ Auld as having been originally Kingsley's second Lang Syne". stanza. L. M. H. THE HEAVENLY PLAY O band GROUND FATHER, in Thy Heavenly Where are the children I dream of many a joyful In cloudy pathways straying. Perchance they cross in crescent cars I cannot think of them in rows, And eyes that ne'er knew dimming. More like that in the soundless Void Or mount some vagrant asteroid O, if Thy plan is understood,- Our good shall there grow greater good, Each aim shall find an end to suit, And as some lofty, lonely life, So even there among the skies May thoughts be sometimes straying, And, sated with sublimities, Joy in the children's playing! -John Hall Ingham. SONNETS FROM THE PORTU W GUESE XXII. HEN our two souls stand up erect and strong, Face to face, silent, draw ing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings break into fire At either curved point, what bitter wrong Can the earth do to us, that we should not long Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher, The angels would press on us and aspire To drop some golden orb of perfect song Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Beloved,-where the unfit Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour round ing it. |