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OR, THE SONG OF THE WRENS. Four years ago Mr. Sullivan requested me to write a little song-cycle, German fashion, for him to exercise his art upon. He had been very successful in setting such old songs as 'Orpheus with his lute,' and I drest up for him, partly in the old style, a puppet, whose almost only merit is, perhaps, that it can dance to Mr. Sullivan's instrument. I am sorry that my four-year-old puppei should have to dance at all in the dark shadow of these days; but the music is now completed, and I am bound by my promise. December, 1870.
A. TENNYSON. THE WINDOW.
Take, take- break, break-
Faint heart never won
•A year hence, a year hence.'
• We shall both be gray.' “A month hence, a month hence.
• Far, far away.'
'A week hence, a week hence.'
*Ah, the long delay.'
You shall fix a day.'
"To-morrow, love, to-morrow,
And that's an age away.'
And honour all the day.
Be merry, all birds, to-day,
from out of the pine!
mad little tits !
and have your desire !
wings of love,
Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
All my wooing is done.
Woods where we hid from the wet,
Meadows in which we met!
Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
And you are his morning star.
By meadow and stile and wood,
Into my heart and my blood!
Sun comes, moon comes,
Time slips away.
Love, fix a day.
Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
I have heard of thorns and briers.
Over the meadows and stiles,
Flash for a million miles.
IN MEMORIAM A. H. H.
OBIT MDCCCXXXIII. STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Whom we, that have not seen thy Thou madest Life in man and brute; face,
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
foot Believing where we cannot prove;
Is on the skull which thou hast made.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more :
Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.
O father, wheresoe'er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still'd the life that beat from thee.
And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind?
iv. To Sleep I give my powers away;
My will is bondsman to the dark;
I sit within a helmless bark, And with my heart I muse and say: O heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou should'st fail from thy
Who scarcely darest to inquire,
Some pleasure from thine early years.
All night below the darken'd eyes;
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor, — while thy head is bow'd,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his yast and wandering grave. change of rythm. Ye knol no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something
Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking,' here to-day,' Or' here to-morrow will he come.' O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair, Poor child, that waitest for thy love!
For now her father's chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
v. I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the
cold: But that large grief which these
enfold Is given in outline and no more.
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour
And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turn'd, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,'
That 'Loss is common to the race'
And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
O what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me no second friend.