Tomohrit, Athos, all things fair,

With such a pencil, such a pen, You shadow forth to distant men, I read and felt that I was there:

And trust me while I turn'd the page,
And track'd you still on classic ground,
I grew in gladness till I found
My spirits in the golden age.

For me the torrent ever pour'd

And glisten'd-here and there alone The broad-limb'd Gods at random thrown

By fountain-urns ;—and Naiads oar'd

A glimmering shoulder under gloom Of cavern pillars; on the swell The silver lily heaved and fell; And many a slope was rich in bloom

From him that on the mountain lea

By dancing rivulets fed his flocks To him who sat upon the rocks, And fluted to the morning sea.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

THE POET'S SONG.

THE rain had fallen, the Poet arose, He pass'd by the town and out of the street,

A light wind blew from the gates of the

sun,

And waves of shadow went over the

wheat,

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, That made the wild-swan pause in her cloud,

And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on
his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the prey, And the nightingale thought, 'I have sung many songs,

But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away.'

ENOCH ARDEN.

LONG lines of cliff breaking have left a

chasm ;

Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes

All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,

sands; Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher

A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;

And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Annie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Ray the miller's only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn ;

And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up And flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away.

For Annie and so prosper'd that at last
A luckier or a bolder fisherman,

A carefuller in peril, did not breathe
For leagues along that breaker-beaten

coast

house.

Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Annie still was mistress; but at times

Enoch would hold possession for a week: 'This is my house and this my little wife.' 'Mine too' said Philip 'turn and turn about:'

When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch strongermade

year

On board a merchantman, and made himself

Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life

From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas:

And all men look'd upon him favourably: And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth

May