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While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

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THE PASSING OF ARTHUR.

"ENGLISH IDYLS."

ND answer made King Arthur, breathing | Clothed with his breath and looking, as he walk'd, Larger than human on the frozen hills.

hard:

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Remorsefully regarded through his tears,
And would have spoken, but he found not words.
Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee,
O'er both his shoulders drew the languid hands,
And rising bore him through the place of tombs.
But as he walk'd King Arthur panted hard,
Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed
When all the house is mute. So sighed the King,
Muttering and murmuring at his ear, "Quick,
quick!

I fear it is too late, and I shall die!"

But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge

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lips.

So like a shatter'd column lay the King.

Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light hath led The Holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved, Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless,

And the days darken round me, and the years,
Among new men, strange faces, other minds.'

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: "The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! But thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by
prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy

voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest-if indeed I go-
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;
Where falls not hail nor rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard-lawns,
And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan,
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

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For a breeze of morning moves,

And the planet of Love is on high,

Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, To faint in his light and die.

All night have the roses heard

The flute, violin, bassoon;

All night hath the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancer's dancing in tune,
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, "There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay; When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day;

Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;

Shine out, little head, running over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate!

The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near,"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear,"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."

She is coming, my own, my sweet ;
Were it ever so airy a tread
My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

TEARS, IDLE TEARS.

T

"THE PRINCESS."

EARS, idle tears, I know not what they | Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

mean:

Tears from the depths of some divine
despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under-world;
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge ;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild as all regret ;
O death in Life! the days that are no more.

ROBERT BROWNING.

POETIC STUDENT OF HUMAN NATURE.

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10 great poet has been less understood by his own generation than was Robert Browning. His earlier writings aimed at lofty themes, which they did not interpret so successfully as to be comprehended by the reading public. His "Sordelo" has been likened to a house built by a young architect who forgot that a staircase was necessary. The author, a boy little beyond twenty, essayed a high thing, in which he partially failed, and for more than forty years the British public remembered it to his discredit, and seemed never weary of ridiculing and abusing it. Even in this, however, was the promise of Browning's best work.

He was the son of a clerk in the Bank of England, but had the entire sympathy and support of his father in his choice of literature as a profession. His life is almost without incident, and its details are not much known.

He lived from the time of his marriage, in 1846, principally abroad. After the death of Mrs. Browning, in 1861, he again lived in London in the winter; but died at Venice in 1889. The subtlety of Browning's poetry, the depth of meaning which is buried sometimes under the most trifling narrative, and sometimes so deeply hidden as to dismay any but the most determined student, has always prevented him from becoming a popular poet. For those, however, who will bestow upon them the necessary thought and study, his poems yield the richest returns. His best-known works are "Paracelsus," "Bells and Pomegranates," "The Blot on the 'Scutcheon," "Pippa Passes," "Men and Women," and "The Ring and the Book." Many of his shorter poems are more popular, and among these "The Ride from Ghent to Aix" is a masterpiece in action and intensity.

THE RIDE FROM GHENT TO AIX.

SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he : I I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ;

"Speed! "echoed the wall to us galloping through;

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace--
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing
our place;

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