With many a light

From window and casement, From garret to basement, She stood, with amazement, Houseless by night.

The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd-
Any where, any where
Out of the world!

In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,—
Over the brink of it,
Picture it-think of it,
Dissolute Man!

Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,-

Smoothe, and compose them,
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

LIFE and Thought have gone away
Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide:
Careless tenants they!

All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.

Close the door, the shutters close,

Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy

Of the dark deserted house.

Come away: no more of mirth

Is here, or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.

Come away: for life and thought
Here no longer dwell:

But in a city glorious

A great and distant city-have bought
A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us!

A. Tennyson.

8

Modern Poets.