SHAKSPEARE.

THERS abide our question-Thou art free!

We ask and ask-Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge! So some sovran hill
Who to the stars uncrowns his majesty,

Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the border, often, of his base
To the foil'd searching of mortality;

And thou, whose head did stars and sunbeams know,
Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure,
Didst walk on earth unguess'd at.—Better so!

All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness which impairs, all griefs which bow,
Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

LETTY'S GLOBE.

HEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third glad

year,

And her young artless words began to flow,
One day we gave the child a colour'd

sphere

Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know
By tint and outline all its sea and land.
She patted all the world; old empires peep'd
Between her baby-fingers; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers; how she leap'd,
And laugh'd, and prattled in her pride of bliss!
But when we turn'd her sweet unlearned eye
On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry,
"Oh yes! I see it, Letty's home is there!"
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.

CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

L

LOVE THE MUSICIAN.

OVE is the Minstrel; for in God's own sight,
The master of all melody, he stands,

And holds a golden rebeck in his hands,
And leads the chorus of the saints in light;
But ever and anon those chambers bright

Detain him not, for down to these low lands He flies, and spreads his musical commands, And teaches men some fresh divine delight. For with his bow he strikes a single chord Across a soul, and wakes in it desire

To grow more pure and lovely, and aspire To that ethereal country where, outpoured From myriad stars that stand before the Lord,

Love's harmonies are like a flame of fire.

EDMUND W. GOSSE.

LOVE PASSING.

H wherefore ever onward, Love! Oh why
Not rest with me awhile, and bid me take
Thine own sweet flowers that everywhere grow

high

In meadows glorious made by that deep lake,

Reflecting clear the heaven of thy sweet grace: Teach me, O Love, to pluck these flowers of thine, Give me to see and know thy blessed face,

:

That everlasting wisdom may be mine :-
I feel the charm of sweetest misery,

I know the mountain-land of quick extremes,
Thick flowers and deepest snows I also see,
I feel great sorrow mix with brightest dreams :-
Sweet Love! Oh rush not thus so quickly by,
But live with me that joy, may never die.

:-

J. W. INCH BOLD.

LOVE'S QUEST.

POVE walks with weary feet the upward way,
Love without joy and led by suffering ;

Love's unkissed lips have now no song to
sing,

Love's eyes are blind and cannot see the day.

Love walks in utter darkness, and I say:

"Oh, Love, 'tis summer;" or, "Behold the spring;" Or, "Love, 'tis autumn, and leaves withering;" And "Now it is the winter bleak and gray; And still Love heedeth not. "Oh, Love," I cry, "Wilt thou not rest? the path is over steep: Love answers not, but passeth all things by ;

Nor will he stay, for those who laugh or weep.

I follow Love who follows Grief; but lo,

Where the way ends, not Love himself can know.

PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.