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hrough said mistakes being ventured in the gross nd heaped up to a system.

I am like, hey tell me, my dear father. Broader brows owbeit, upon a slenderer undergrowth f delicate features, paler, near as grave; ut then my mother's smile breaks up the whole, nd makes it better sometimes than itself. 0, nine full years, our days were hid with God mong his mountains: I was just thirteen, till growing like the plants from unseen roots 1 tongue-tied Springs, - and suddenly awoke o full life and life's needs and agonies Vith an intense, strong, struggling heart beside stone-dead father. Life, struck sharp on death, lakes awful lightning. His last word was “Love Love, my child, love, love! ,-(then he had done with grief) Love, my child.” Ere I answered he was gone, Ind none was left to love in all the world. Chere, ended childhood.

6 1809

d 1892).


Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,

Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever,

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,

A rivulet then a river:
No wbere by thee my steps shall be.

For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,

And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,

For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee

A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,

For ever and for ever.



The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

hark, o hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.



“Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to thy eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

"Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below

he verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

“Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

“Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret:
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.”



Home they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon’d, nor utter'd cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,

“She must weep or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,

Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,

Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;

Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee
Like summer tempest came her tears

"Sweet my child, I live for thee."


So all day long the noise of battle rollid
Among the mountains by the winter sea;
Until King Arthur's table, man by man,
Had fall'n in Lyonnesse about their Lord,
King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep,
The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him,
Sir Bedivere, the last of all his knights,
And bore him to a chapel nigh the field,
A broken chancel with a broken cross,
That stood on a dark strait of barren land.
On one side lay the Ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.

Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere:
“The sequel of to-day unsolders all
The goodliest fellowship of famous knights
Whereof this world holds records. Such a sleep
They sleep the men I loved. I think that we

Shall never more, at any future time,
Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds,
Walking about the gardens and the halls
Of Camelot, as in the days that were.
I perish by this people which I made,
Tho' Merlin sware that I should come again
To rule once more

but let what will be, be,
I am so deeply smitten thro' the helm
That without help I cannot last till morn.
Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur,
Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how
In those old days, one summer noon, an arm
Rose up from out the bosom of the lake,
Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,
Holding the sword and how I row'd across
And took it, and have worn it, like a king:
And, wheresoever I am sung or told
In aftertime, this also shall be known:
But now delay not: take Excalibur,
And fling him far into the middle mere:
Watch what thou seëst, and lightly bring me word."

To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere:
“It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus,
Aidless, alone, and smitten thro' the helm.
A little thing may harm a wounded man
Yet I thy hest will all perform at full,
Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.”

So saying, from the ruin'd shrine he stept
And in the moon athwart the place of tombs,
Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men,
Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang
Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down
By zig-zag paths, and juts of pointed rock,
Came on the shining levels of the lake.

There drew he forth the brand Excalibur,
And o'er him, drawing it, the winter moon,
Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth

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