Beside the floating scents, beside
The twinkling shadows of the stars.

By chance my eye fell on the stream;
How many a marvelous power,

Sleeps in us,

sleeps, and doth not dream!

This knew I in that hour.

l'or then my heart, so full of strife,

No more was in me stirr'd;

My life was in the river's life,
And I nor saw nor heard.

Was it a moment or an hour?

I knew not; but I mourn'd

When from that realm of awful power

I to these fields return'd. "

THE MIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES

By Francis Bourdillon

(Vic. An. pre 585)

"The night has a thousand e; es,

And the da; bt on=;

Yet the light of the bright world dies
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

et the light of a whole life dies When love is done."

Among the reflective lyrics there are certain ones

that are distinctly Victorian. There are none in the

Elizabethan age that correspond to them. I refer to the

poems of religious doubt and melancholy, and to those whose sadness comes from the uncertainty of success, and the deep grief aroused by the contemplation of the great economic and social evils of the time. The fact that the Victorian poet interested himself in these subjects distinguishes him from the Elizabethan poet who utterly ig

"The sense that every struggle brings defeat
Because Fate holds no prize to crown success;
That all the oracles are dumb or cheat

Because they have no secret to express;

That none can pierce the vast black veil uncertain
Because there in no light beyond the curtain,
That all is vanity and nothingness."

The wrongs of the social and economic systems led Tennyson to write "LOCKSIEY HALI" sixty years after.

"Is it well that while we range with science, cloring in the Time,

City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city

slime?

There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet,

Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street.

There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread,

There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead.

There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor,

And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the

"Do ye hear the children weering, O my brothers

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.