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The half-blown moon is limned against the west,

A lingerer to witness this pure day;
Who knows, when she pursues the stars to rest,

What sweeter smiles may charm her night away!
This is a day when joy flows to the brim,
The stately echo of a summer hymn.

Life at its midday is a stern employ, Needing all strength of mind and zeal of soul

Gathered in blossom-time, when life was joy Mainly,-a sweet, brief prelude to the whole.

Enter the gates of noon with loving heart As well as judging head; no ministry

So crowns a man with true, unconscious art As loss of self in restless energy

To make wrong right, to brace the souls that faint; To use his talent for the sake of God,

Distilling patience out of drear complaint, Smoothing the road by tribulation trod.

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At noon a gust of feathered rain
A hornpipe danced without the pane,
Then nestled blithely 'mid the leaves,
Whose gold and garnet brushed the eaves.

To buy, and sell, and gain; to write a book; To build a house, or sail upon the sea;

To play the master's music, or to cook;
To be well skilled in all the arts that be

Were poor attainment, if above it all
No sense of human brotherhood held sway

As pilot of the craft. The words that fall Like gracious raindrops on an April day

Drop from the sky for you; the faithful tears Which water other lives, nor guerdon ask,

Shall bring full harvest in the sunless years Where God is light and love the only task.

The green grass took a daintier shade As the gay phantoms on it played; Gray vistas with their mirth grew dim, And earth and sky blent at their rim.

As day declined the storm waxed brave;
The blast a wintry warning gave;
A thickening sheet earth's bosom spanned,
And moonless night crept o'er the land.



A soft September twilight draped the sea;

In pensive monotone, among the piers

The breakers roared, and dashed their briny tears Back on its bosom; silence fell on me, Standing alone upon the sands; the free,

Wide water with an anthem filled my ears,

Ringing a prelude to the eternal years That, boundless, deep and grand, in heaven shall be.

As when the buds of oak and maple swell, We look for early glimpse of emerald spray

Thick-set with blooms, and signs begin to tell Of daisied valleys bringing in the May,

So the fresh youth, the laugh, the dewy eye, The pride of mothers and of nature, bring

The promise of rare manhood by and by, Whose fragrance of kind words and deeds shall

swing Like censers o'er the brown, dry fields of life.

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Into new pastures in the realm of thought, And vineyards where the wine of wisdom grows, Bend your young feet; for never deeds are

wrought Worthy a man, save as his whole face glows

With highest reach of knowledge in his sphere; With purpose grand, and utmost exercise

Of gift with which his God endowed him. Here Pluck the full ears of learning, for the prize

Of truth in jewels overturn the soil
With shares thrice tempered by a pliant will

To mould to greatness all the petty toil
With book and pen, and fashion good from ill.

My love sings like the mavis

All in tune; Her voice trills thro' the gamut

Of all June.

Her eyes are star-time sapphires

Set in dew; I think the brook's low laughter

Brims them too.


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LFRED TENNYSON, England's beloved

poet laureate, and one of the sweetest singers the world has ever known, passed peacefully away, full of years and honors, to unknown realms, early in the morning of October 6th, 1892. The announcement of such a sad event could not help being received by all who speak the English tongue with a deep sense of personal loss, for he was not only a poet's poet, but he was also the people's poet, pleasing, alike, all tastes, and appealing as he did, to the better nature and sympathies of the masses.

He was born in 1809, the same year in which Oliver Wendell Holmes and Gladstone first entered this world, at Somersby, in Lincolnshire, England. His father was the Rev. George Clayton Tennyson, LL. D., a man of noble birth and fine character, while his mother was a sweet, gentle woman, possessing great imaginative powers and much ability. His home was picturesquely situated and abounded with beauty mingled with the utmost refinement. It was partly there and partly at the village school that Tennyson received his early education, and at this early period in his life he showed signs of possessing a strong poetic vein, writing verses on a slate for pleasure and recreation. He loved the sea passionately and when its inspiration was upon him he poured out verse after verse. But it was not until 1827 that any of his efforts appeared in print, and then it was in the form of a small volume, of which almost nothing has been preserved, and which was entitled: "Poems by Two Brothers."

In 1828 Alfred joined his two brothers at Trinity College, Cambridge, where he gained the distinction of carrying off the Chancellor's medal for a poem in blank verse on Timbuctoo,” in which one can trace the impress of his rare genius, that was by degrees developing.

His first volume of poems known by, “Poems, Chiefly Lyrical," appeared in 1832, and it was severely criticized as being weak and immature; but, ten years hence, when he had completely revised the former volume, to which had been added many new poems, he gained for himself a position of absolute supremacy which has never since grown less, but has steadily increased.

While at Cambridge he formed an acquaintance with Arthur Henry Hallam, son of the eminent historian, which afterwards ripened into a strong and exceedingly warm friendship, and at whose death, Tennyson wrote a tribute of affection to his memory, the world renowned “In Memoriam.”


The morn breaks gloriously; refreshed with sleep,

The lithe form pauses at the brink of day

With mind all set for manly toil; we say He's worthy, but he goes bare-browed to reap. He's bronzed; the sun has climbed the midday

steep; The field is treeless; briers line the way

To cooler places; yet no wreath of bay Garlands his head; he still must work and weep Till evening folds its silken garments round His bruised and wearied limbs, and all the

spheres Break into silent singing; angels bend Anear to see him by the Father crowned; “Thus shall it be to him who wrought with tears

And loved and prayed and trusted to the end.”


The yesterdays are risen

All ruthless from their tomb, And rob the young to-morrow Of all its hopeful bloom.


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In 1847 Tennyson wrote “The Princess, A Medley,” which was written in rather a novel style, being a combination of an epic and a series of lyrics.

On the death of Wordsworth, Tennyson succeeded him as poet laureate, in which capacity he wrote many praiseworthy poems commemorating great events of national interest. Not long after this, "Maud, and Other Poems," appeared, but they lacked the enthusiastic admiration that was wont to be showered upon his efforts; however, “The Idylls of the King," which appeared a few years later more than compensated, in every way, for any deficiency on the part of the other. It is difficult to over-estimate the value of Tennyson's works, and it is not an easy matter to criticize them dispassionately, as one is apt to become enamored with their beauties. His verse exemplifies the ornate in poetry; nothing can excel the delicate chiselling, the chaste coloring, and the exquisite polish of his lines and stanzas, and there is such a delicious blending of sound and sense pervading the whole.

He was much beloved by a circle of intimate friends,-among the number are included Carlyle and Gladstone—but for the most part, he lived a quiet and retiring life, always shrinking from the public gaze, and bearing his honors and wealth as simply and as sweetly as he had done his poverty and neglect, without the least suspicion of vanity. He was the first commoner who was ever raised to the House of Lords for literary eminence alone, being neither a politician nor a statesman.

The cordial relationship which existed between Tennyson and the United States was greatly strengthened by his attachment with Longfellow.

After his marriage with Emily Sellwood, a niece of Sir John Franklin, the great Arctic voyager, he resided for some time at a romantic spot in the Isle of Wight, where he and his family spent many of the happiest years of their lives.

The following is the description given by Carlyle to Emerson, of the poet:

“One of the finest looking men in the world. A great shock of rough, dusty dark hair; bright, laughing hazel eyes; massive, aquiline face; most massive, yet most delicate; of sallow brown complexion, almost Indian looking; clothes cynically loose, free and easy; smokes infinite tobacco. His voice is musical metallicfit for loud laughter and piercing wail and all that may be between; speech and speculation free and plenteous; I do not meet, in these late decades, such company over a pipe.”

E. M. K.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love,

And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head; Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh! your sweet eyes, your low replies;

A great enchantress you may be, But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose

Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall; The guilt of blood is at your door;

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'd a vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wonder'd.
Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke

Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not,

Not the six hundred.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere;

You pine among your halls and towers;
The languid light of your proud eyes

Is wearied of the lling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,

But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,

You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate,

Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart,

And let the foolish yeoman go.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them

Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them,

Lest of six hundred.



When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!

All the world wonder'd. Honor the charge they made! Honor the Light brigade!

Noble six hundred.

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said; Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.


We were two daughters of one race;
She was the fairest in the face;

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell, Therefore revenge became me well.

O, the Earl was fair to see!

Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismay'd ? Not tho' the soldier knew

Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

She died; she went to burning flame;
She mix'd her ancient blood with shame.

The wind is blowing in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait;

O, the Earl was fair to see!

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volley'd and thunder'd.
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

I made a feast; I bade him come;
I won his love, I brought him home.

The wind is roaring in turret and tree.
And after supper, on a bed,
Upon my lap he laid his head.

O, the Earl was fair to see!

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