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.

For 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 NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES

By Francis Bourdill on

(Vic. An. pire 585)

"The night has a thousand etes,

And the da; but 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

en 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 eco

nomic 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 "LOCKSLEY HALL" sixty years after.

"Is it well that while we range with science, loring 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 semp stress 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 wearing, O my brothers

Ere the sorrow comes with years?

They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears.