Alas!

In grief I am not all unlearn'd;

Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ;

One went, who never hath return'd.

Poems of Comfort and Hope

Break, Break, Break

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.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.

Friends in Paradise

HEY are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit lingering here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,

And my sad thoughts doth clear:

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest,
After the sun's remove.

I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days;
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.

O holy Hope! and high Humility,

High as the heavens above!

These are your walks, and you have show'd them

me,

To kindle my cold love.

Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just,
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,

Could man outlook that mark!

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may

know,

At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.

And yet, as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep;

So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted

themes,

And into glory peep.

SING

HENRY VAUGHAN.

Between the Lines

ING the song of the singer, merrily ring the rhymes,

Light is the lay they tell us, light as its echoed

chimes;

Sing the song of the singer, mocking at doubt and

fear,

Catch the joy of its melody, let its daring beauty

cheer;

Well that the mellow music may bear no hidden

signs

Of the broken heart of the poet, written between

the lines.

Watch the part of the player, bravely and deftly done,

See the difficult height attained, the loud applauses

won;

Weep with his passionate sorrow, thrill to his passionate bliss,

Blending your joyous laughter with that happy laugh of his;

Well that his marvellous acting dazzles, wins, refines !

Who thinks of the desperate effort written between the lines?

See the work of the painter, in coloring rare and rich,

Give it its well-won homage, choose it the choicest niche;

Hang it where it may render, as an artist best can do,

Companionship in its beauty, delicate, pure, and

true;

Well that its softened loveliness, softness and thought combines,

None read the bitter, baffling strife, written between the lines.