FROM IN MEMORIAM." O bliss, when all in circle drawn About him, heart and ear were fed, To hear him, as he lay and read The Tuscan poets on the lawn; Or in the all-golden afternoon A guest, or happy sister, sung, Or here she brought the harp, and flung A ballad to the brightening moon! Nor less it pleased, in livelier moods, Beyond the bounding hill to stray, And break the livelong summer day With banquet in the distant woods; Whereat we glanced from theme to theme, But if I praised the busy town, He loved to rail against it still, For "ground in yonder social mill, We rub each other's angles down, "And merge," he said, "in form and gloss Or cooled within the glooming wave; And brushing ankle deep in flowers, We heard behind the woodbine veil The milk that bubbled in the pail, And buzzings of the honeyed hours. THY converse drew us with delight, The men of rathe and riper years; The feeble soul, a haunt of fears; Forgot his weakness in thy sight. On thee the loyal-hearted hung, The proud was half disarmed of pride; Nor cared the serpent at thy side To flicker with his treble tongue. The stern were mild when thou wert by; While I, thy dearest sat apart, 181 And felt thy triumph was as mine; And loved them more, that they were thine, The graceful tact, the Christian art; Not mine the sweetness or the skill, But mine the love that will not tire, And, born of love, the vague desire That spurs an imitative will. DEAR friend, far off, my lost desire, Known and unknown, human, divine! Strange friend, past, present, and to be, THY voice is on the rolling air; I hear thee where the waters run; Thou standest in the rising sun, And in the setting thou art fair. What art thou, then? I cannot guess; But though I seem in star and flower To feel thee, some diffusive power, I do not therefore love thee less: My love involves the love before; Far off thou art, but ever nigh; I have thee still, and I rejoice. I prosper, circled with thy voice; I shall not lose thee, though I die. ALFRED TENNYSON The voices which are silent there CAROLINE NORTON. GIVE ME THE OLD. OLD WINE TO DRINK, OLD WOOD to burn, old The same my sire scanned before, Of Oxford's domes: Old HORACE, rake ANACREON, by Old TULLY, PLAUTUS, TERENCE lie; Quaint BURTON, quainter SPENSER, ay! BOOKS TO READ, AND OLD FRIENDS TO CON- The Holye Book by which we live and die. VERSE WITH. |