A nation yet, the rulers and the ruled—

Some sense of duty, something of a faith,

Some reverence for the laws ourselves have made,
Some patient force to change them when we will,
Some civic manhood firm against the crowd-
But yonder, whiff! there comes a sudden heat,
The gravest citizen seems to lose his head,
The king is scared, the soldier will not fight,
The little boys begin to shoot and stab,

A kingdom topples over with a shriek
Like an old woman, and down rolls the world

In mock heroics stranger than our own;
Revolts, republics, revolutions, all

No graver than a schoolboys' barring out;
Too comic for the solemn things they are,
Too solemn for the comic touches in them,
Like our wild Princess with as wise a dream

As some of theirs-God bless the narrow seas!
I wish they were a whole Atlantic broad.'

'Have patience,' I replied, 'ourselves are full Of social wrong; and maybe wildest dreams

Are but the needful preludes of the truth:

For me, the genial day, the happy crowd,
The sport half-science, fill me with a faith.
This fine old world of ours is but a child
Yet in the go-cart. Patience! Give it time
To learn its limbs: there is a hand that guides.'

In such discourse we gain'd the garden rails, And there we saw Sir Walter where he stood, Before a tower of crimson holly-oaks, Among six boys, head under head, and look'd No little lily-handed Baronet he,

A great broad-shoulder'd genial Englishman,

A lord of fat prize-oxen and of sheep,

A raiser of huge melons and of pine,
A patron of some thirty charities,
A. pamphleteer on guano and on grain,
A quarter-sessions chairman, abler none;

Fair-hair'd and redder than a windy morn;

Now shaking hands with him, now him, of those That stood the nearest-now address'd to speechWho spoke few words and pithy, such as closed Welcome, farewell, and welcome for the year

To follow a shout rose again, and made

:

The long line of the approaching rookery swerve From the elms, and shook the branches of the deer From slope to slope thro' distant ferns, and rang Beyond the bourn of sunset; O, a shout

More joyful than the city-roar that hails

Premier or king! Why should not these great Sirs Give up their parks some dozen times a year

To let the people breathe? So thrice they cried,

I likewise, and in groups they stream'd away.

But we went back to the Abbey, and sat on, So much the gathering darkness charm'd: we sat But spoke not, rapt in nameless reverie,

Perchance upon the future man: the walls

Blacken'd about us, bats wheel'd, and owls whoop'd,

And gradually the powers of the night,

That range above the region of the wind,

Deepening the courts of twilight broke them up

Thro' all the silent spaces of the worlds,

Beyond all thought into the Heaven of Heavens.

Last little Lilia, rising quietly,

Disrobed the glimmering statue of Sir Ralph

From those rich silks, and home well-pleased we went.

THE END.

LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

In one Volume, Price 9s., cloth,

POEMS. BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

SIXTH EDITION.