BUT Enoch yearned to see her face again; "If I might look on her sweet face again And know that she is happy." So the thought Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth At evening when the dull November day Was growing duller twilight, to the hill. There he sat down gazing on all below: There did a thousand memories roll upon him, Unspeakable for sadness. By and by The ruddy square of comfortable light, Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house, Allured him, as the beacon-blaze allures The bird of passage, till he madly strikes Against it, and beats out his weary life.

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street, The latest house to landward; but behind, With one small gate that opened on the waste, Flourished a little garden square and walled: And in it throve an ancient evergreen, A yewtree, and all round it ran a walk Of shingle, and a walk divided it :

But Enoch shunned the middle walk and stole

Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence That which he better might have shunned, if griefs

Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnished board
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth;
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
And o'er her second father stoopt a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,
Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring

To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed :
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning now and then to speak with him,
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld
His wife his wife no more, and saw the babe
Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee,
And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness,
And his own children tall and beautiful,
And him, that other, reigning in his place,
Lord of his rights and of his children's love,
Then he, though Miriam Lane had told him all,
Because things seen are mightier than things heard,
Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and
feared

To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,
Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,
Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He therefore turning softly like a thief, Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot, And feeling all along the garden-wall, Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found, Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed, As lightly as a sick man's chamber-door, Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt, but that his knees

Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug
His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM.

O THE days are gone when beauty bright
My heart's chain wove!

When my dream of life, from morn till night,
Was love, still love!

"T was I that beat the bush,
The birds to others flew,
For she, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

If ever that Dame Nature,
For this false lover's sake,
Another pleasing creature

Like unto her would make; Let her remember this,

To make the other true,
For this, alas! hath left me,
Falero, lero, loo.

No riches now can raise me,
No want makes me despair,
No misery amaze me,

Nor yet for want I care;

I have lost a world itself,

My earthly heaven, adieu ! Since she, alas! hath left me, Falero, lero, loo.

GEORGE WITHER.

WHY SO PALE AND WAN

WHY so pale and wan, fond lover?
Pr'y thee, why so pale?—

Will, when looking well can't move her,
Looking ill prevail?

Pr'y thee, why so pale?

Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
Pr'y thee, why so mute?

Will, when speaking well can't win her,
Saying nothing do 't?

Pr'y thee, why so mute?

Quit, quit, for shame! this will not move, This cannot take her:

If of herself she will not love,

Nothing can make her:
The devil take her!

A word unkind or wrongly taken, O, love that tempests never shook,

A breath, a touch like this has shaken! And ruder words will soon rush in To spread the breach that words begin; And eyes forget the gentle ray They wore in courtship's smiling day; And voices lose the tone that shed A tenderness round all they said; Till fast declining, one by one, The sweetnesses of love are gone, And hearts, so lately mingled, seem Like broken clouds, or like the stream, That smiling left the mountain's brow, As though its waters ne'er could sever, Yet, ere it reach the plain below,

Of all the operas that Verdi wrote,

The best, to my taste, is the Trovatore;
And Mario can soothe, with a tenor note,
The souls in purgatory.

The moon on the tower slept soft as snow;
And who was not thrilled in the strangest way,
As we heard him sing, while the gas burned low,
"Non ti scordar di me ?"

The emperor there, in his box of state,
Looked grave; as if he had just then seen
The red flag wave from the city gate,

Where his eagles in bronze had been.

The empress, too, had a tear in her eye :

For one moment, under the old blue sky, To the old glad life in Spain.

Well

there in our front-row box we sat
Together, my bride betrothed and I ;
My gaze was fixed on my opera hat,
And hers on the stage hard by.

And both were silent, and both were sad; -
Like a queen she leaned on her full white arm,
With that regal, indolent air she had;

So confident of her charm!

I have not a doubt she was thinking then
Of her former lord, good soul that he was,
Who died the richest and roundest of men,
The Marquis of Carabas.

I hope that, to get to the kingdom of heaven,
Through a needle's eye he had not to pass;
I wish him well for the jointure given
To my lady of Carabas.

Meanwhile, I was thinking of my first love

As I had not been thinking of aught for years; Till over my eyes there began to move Something that felt like tears.

I thought of the dress that she wore last time,
When we stood 'neath the cypress-trees together,
In that lost land, in that soft clime,
In the crimson evening weather;

Of that muslin dress (for the eve was hot);
And her warm white neck in its golden chain;
And her full soft hair, just tied in a knot,
And falling loose again;

And the jasmine flower in her fair young breast ;
(O the faint, sweet smell of that jasmine flower!)
And the one bird singing alone to his nest ;
And the one star over the tower.

I thought of our little quarrels and strife,

And the letter that brought me back my ring; And it all seemed then, in the waste of life, Such a very little thing!

For I thought of her grave below the hill,

Which the sentinel cypress-tree stands over: And I thought, "Were she only living still, How I could forgive her and love her!"

And I swear, as I thought of her thus, in that hour, And of how, after all, old things are best, That I smelt the smell of that jasmine flower Which she used to wear in her breast.

It smelt so faint, and it smelt so sweet,
It made me creep, and it made me cold!

again,

Where a mummy is half unrolled.