And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half-succeeded in his theft-
Thyself remov'd, thy power to soothe me left.

8.-RIDING TOGETHER.

WILLIAM MORRIS.

[Mr. Morris, who has evidently taken Chaucer for his model, is one of the purest and most thoroughly English of any of our recent poets. He was born at Walthamstow, March 24, 1834, and educated at Marlbro' College and Exeter College, Oxford, where he took his degree about 1850. His principal works are his "Defence of Guenevere, and other Poems," 1856; "The Life and Death of Jason," 1867; and "The Earthly Paradise," 1868. Of the latter work the second and concluding volume will appear in Nov. 1869.]

FOR many, many days together the wind blew steady from the east;

For many days hot grew the weather, about the time of our Lady's Feast;

For many days we rode together, yet met with neither friend nor foe;

Hotter and clearer grew the weather, steadily did the east wind blow.

We saw not the trees in the hot bright weather, clear cut with shadows very black,

As freely we rode on together with helms unlaced and bridles slack.

And often as we rode together, we, looking down the green-bank'd stream,

Saw flowers in the sunny weather, and saw the bubble-making bream;

And in the night lay down together, and hung about our heads the rood,

Or watch'd night-long in dewy weather, the while the moon did watch the wood.

Our spears stood bright and thick together, straight out the

banners streamed behind,

As we gallop'd on in the sunny weather, with faces turned towards the wind.

Down sank our threescore spears together, as thick we saw the Pagans ride;

His eager face in the clear fresh weather shone out that last time by my side.

Up the sweep of the bridge we dashed together-it rocked to the crash of the meeting spears;

Down rained the buds of the dear spring weather, the elm-tree flowers fell like tears.

There, as we rolled and writhed together, I threw my arms above my head,

For close by my side, in the lovely weather, I saw him reel and fall back dead.

I and the slayer met together, he waited the death-stroke there in his place,

With thoughts of death in the lovely weather, gapingly mazed at my madden'd face.

Madly I fought as we fought together; in vain: the little Christian band

The Pagans drown'd, as in stormy weather the river drowns lowlaying land.

They bound my blood-stained hands together; they bound his corpse to nod by my side;

Then on we rode, in the bright March weather, with clash of cymbals did we ride.

We ride no more, no more together-my prison bars are thick

and strong;

I take no heed of any weather; the sweet saints grant I live not long!

(By permission of the Author.)

9.-THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

[Raleigh, the poet, soldier, navigator, politician and courtier, was born 1552, and beheaded 1618. His poetry is very beautiful, and expressed in the quaint but vigorous style of the period. Among his political and other works may be mentioned his "Maxims of State," the "Cabinet Council," and his "Advice to his Son." His unfinished work, the "History of the World," was written during his twelve years' imprisonment in the Tower.]

Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand!
Fear not to touch the best,

And truth shall be thy warrant;
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Go, tell the church it shows

What's good and doth no good:
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' actions,
Not lov'd unless they give,

Not strong but by their factions.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate.
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending.
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell love it is but lust,
Tell time it is but motion,
Tell flesh it is but dust;
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth,
Tell honour how it alters,
Tell beauty how she blasteth,
Tell favour how she falters.
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness.

And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness,
Tell skill it is pretension,

Tell charity of coldness,

10.-THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

[Mrs. Browning wrote and published the greater portion of her poetry while she was yet Elizabeth Barrett; she married Mr. Browning, the poet, in 1846. All her works evince intellectual power of the highest order, and they suffer nothing by comparison with the sublimest efforts of masculine genius: she combines the philosophy of Tennyson with the grace of Shelley and the force of Milton. Her principal works are, "Poems," two vols., 1844; "The Drama of Exile;""The Vision of Poets ;" "Lady Geraldine's Courtship;" "Casa Guidi Windows," written in Florence, 1848; "Aurora Leigh," 1856, a novel in blank verse; besides numerous contributions to the periodicals. Messrs Chapman and Hall publish her works in a collected form. She died in 1861.]

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,-
And that cannot stop their tears.

The young lambs are bleating in the meadows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward the west-
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly!-

They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in their sorrow,
Why their tears are falling so ?—

The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago-

The old tree is leafless in the forest-
The old year is ending in the frost-
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest-
The old hope is hardest to be lost:

But the young, young children, O my brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,
In our happy Fatherland ?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,

For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy-

"Your old earth," they say,

66

66

is

66

very dreary;"

Our young feet," they say, are very weak! Few paces have we taken, yet are weary

Our grave-rest is very far to seek.

Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold,

And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,
And the graves are for the old.

"True," say the children, "it may happen
That we die before our time.

Little Alice died last year-the grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.

We looked into the pit prepared to take her-
Was no room for any work in the close clay:
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, 'Get up, little Alice! it is day.'

If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries!-
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes!