ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

Then, ay, then-he shall kneel low-
With the red-roan steed anear him,

Which shall seem to understand-
Till I answer,' Rise and go!
For the world must love and fear him
Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

"Then he will arise so pale,

I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say—
Nathless,* maiden brave, 'Farewell,'
I will utter and dissemble-

"Light to-morrow with to-day.' +

"Then he will ride through the hills,
To the wide world past the river,
There to put away all wrong!
To make straight distorted wills,-
And to empty the broad quiver
Which the wicked bear along.

66 Three times shall a young foot-page
Swim the stream and climb the mountain,
And kneel down beside my feet-
'Lo! my master sends this gage,

Lady, for thy pity's counting!

What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time I will send
A white rosebud for a guerdon,§—
And the second time a glove!
But the third time-I may bend
From my pride, and answer, ‘Pardon-
If he comes to take my love.'

"Then the young foot-page will run—

Then my lover will ride faster,

* Nevertheless.

Till he kneeleth at my knee !

25

Make the future glorious with your deeds in the present.

For you in pity to deem worthy.

§ A reward or recompense. Fr. guerredon, guerdon, a prize or gift for warlike service.

'I am a duke's eldest son ! Thousand serfs do call me master, But, O Love, I love but thee!'

"He will kiss me on the mouth
Then, and lead me, as a lover,

Through the crowd that praise his deeds!
And, when soul-tied by one troth,*

Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds.”
Little Ellie, with her smile

Not yet ended, rose up gaily,—

Tied the bonnet, donn'd † the shoe,
And went homeward, round a mile,
Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse,
Winding by the stream light-hearted,
Where the osier pathway leads-
Past the boughs she stoops and stops!
Lo! the wild swan had deserted-
And a rat had gnaw'd the reeds.
Ellie went home, sad and slow!
If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,
Sooth, I know not; but I know
She could show him never, never,
That swan's nest among the reeds.

ALFRED TENNYSON: 1809

Home they brought her Warrior Dead. From "The Princess." See p. 132. The following exquisite song is sung in one of the many interludes in "The Princess"—a serio-comic heroic poem, full of grace and beauty.

HOME they brought her warrior dead:

She nor swoon'd, nor utter'd cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die.”

* A pledge or promise. The same word as truth. + To don

to do on, i.e. put on.

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Call'd him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee

Like summer tempest came her tears
Sweet my child, I live for thee."

66

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL: 1819—

Love.

James Russell Lowell, born in Boston, United States, best known as the author of The Biglow Papers," and the editor of the North American Review, is a writer of wit and humour, and some considerable poetic strength. His standpoint is that of a highly cultured man, and an American; and from that standpoint he sees men and things keenly enough, and with an eye quick with the sense of their inborn natural beauty.

TRUE love is but a humble, low-born thing,

And hath its food served up in earthenware;

It is a thing to walk with, hand in hand,

Through the every-dayness of this work-day world,
Baring its tender feet to every roughness,
Yet letting not one heart-beat go astray

From beauty's law of plainness and content :-
A simple, fireside thing, whose quiet smile
Can warm earth's poorest hovel to a home;
Which, when our autumn cometh, as it must,
And life in the chill wind shivers bare and leafless,
Shall still be blest with Indian summer youth
In bleak November, and, with thankful heart,
Smile on its ample stores of garnered fruit,
As full of sunshine to our aged eyes

As when it nursed the blossoms of our spring.

Such is true love, which steals into the heart
With feet as silent as the lightsome dawn
That kisses smooth the rough brows of the dark,
And hath its will through blissful gentleness,—
Not like a rocket, which, with savage glare,

Whirrs suddenly up, then bursts, and leaves the night
Painfully quivering on the dazed eyes;

A love that gives and takes, that seeth faults,
Not with flaw-seeking eyes like needle points,
But loving-kindly ever looks them down
With the o'ercoming faith of meek forgiveness;
A love that shall be new and fresh each hour,
As is the golden mystery of sunset,

Or the sweet coming of the evening star,
Alike, and yet most unlike, every day,
And seeming ever best and fairest now;
A love that doth not kneel for what it seeks,
But faces truth and beauty as their peer,
Showing its worthiness of noble thoughts
By a clear sense of inward nobleness;
A love that in its object findeth not
All grace and beauty, and enough to sate
Its thirst of blessing, but, in all of good
Found there, it sees but Heaven-granted types
Of good and beauty in the soul of man,
And traces, in the simplest heart that beats,
A family likeness to its chosen one,
That claims of it the rights of brotherhood.
For love is blind but with the fleshly eye,
That so its inner sight may be more clear;
And outward shows of beauty only so

Are needful at the first, as is a hand

To guide and to uphold an infant's steps:

Great spirits need them not their earnest look
Pierces the body's mask of thin disguise,
And beauty ever is to them revealed,

Behind the unshapeliest, meanest lump of clay,
With arms outstretched and eager face ablaze,
Yearning to be but understood and loved.

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING: 1809-1861.

The Forced Recruit.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, born in London, stands alone as the only great lyric poetess our land has possessed. With a warm-hearted deep insight into life and its men and women, she combines a rare fluency and strength of words, which, indeed, at times jingle sadly out of tune, yet most often are full of the tenderest pathos of music, while in all and through all throb and flash the most genuine love of nature and enthusiasm in man. The following incident is taken from the Italian war of independence and unity, which she watched so eagerly and sang of so well,

IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him,

He died with his face to you all;

Yet bring him here where around him
You honour your bravest that fall.

Venetian, fair-featured and slender,

He lies, shot to death in his youth,
With a smile on his lips over-tender
For any mere soldier's dead mouth.

No stranger, and yet not a traitor,

Though alien the cloth on his breast,
Underneath it how seldom a greater
Young heart has a shot sent to rest!

By your enemy tortured and goaded
To march with them, stand in their file,
His musket (see) never was loaded,
He facing your guns with that smile.

As orphans yearn on to their mothers,
He yearned to your patriot bands;-
"Let me die for our Italy, brothers,

If not in your ranks, by your hands!

"Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me
A ball in the body, which may
Deliver my heart here, and tear me

This badge of the Austrian away!"