I

When one would aim an arrow fair,

But send it slackly from the string; And one would pierce an outer ring, And one an inner, here and there;

And last the master-bowman, he

Would cleave the mark. A willing ear
We lent him. Who, but hung to hear
The rapt oration flowing free

From point to point with power and grace,
And music in the bounds of law,
To those conclusions when we saw
The God within him light his face,

And seem to lift the form, and glow
In azure orbits heavenly-wise;
And over those ethereal eyes
The bar of Michael Angelo.

Alfred Tennyson.

ON REVISITING TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

HAVE a debt of my heart's own to thee,

School of my soul! old lime and cloister shade! Which I, strange suitor, should lament to see Fully acquitted and exactly paid.

The first ripe taste of manhood's best delights, Knowledge imbibed, while mind and heart agree, In sweet belated talk on winter nights,

With friends whom growing time keeps dear to me;— Such things I owe thee, and not only these:

I owe thee the far-beaconing memories

Of the young dead, who, having crossed the tide
Of Life where it was narrow, deep, and clear,
Now cast their brightness from the farther side
On the dark-flowing hours I breast in fear.
Lord Houghton.

THE BACKS.

ROPPING down the river,

DROPPI

Down the glancing river,
Through the fleet of shallops,
Through the fairy fleet,

Underneath the bridges,

Carvéd stone and oaken,

Crowned with sphere and pillar,

Linking lawn with lawn,

Sloping swards of garden,
Flowering bank to bank;
Midst the golden noontide,
'Neath the stately trees,
Reaching out their laden
Arms to overshade us;
Midst the summer evens,
Whilst the winds were heavy
With the blossom-odors,
Whilst the birds were singing
From their sleepless nests.

Dropping down the river,
Down the branchéd river,

Through the hidden outlet
Of some happy stream,
Lifting up the leafy
Curtain that o'erhung it,
Fold on fold of foliage

Not proof against the stars.

Drinking ruby claret

From the silvered "Pewter,"

Spoil of ancient battle
On the "ready" Cam,
Ne'er to be forgotten
Pleasant friendly faces
Mistily discerning
Through the glass below.

Ah! the balmy fragrance
Of the mild Havanna!
Downed amidst the purple
Of our railway wrappers,
Solemn-thoughted, glorious
On the verge of June.
Musical the rippling
Of the tardy current,
Musical the murmur
Of the wind-swept trees,
Musical the cadence

Of the friendly voices

Laden with the sweetness

Of the songs of old.

James Payn

Camelot.

THE LADY OF SHALOTT.

PART I.

ON either side the river lie

Ο

Long fields of barley and of rye,

That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-towered Camelot;

And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow

Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs forever
By the island in the river

Flowing down to Camelot.

Four gray walls and four gray towers
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow-veiled,
Slide the heavy barges, trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth, silken-sailed,

Skimming down to Camelot:

But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?

Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,

Down to towered Camelot :
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ""T is the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

PART II.

THERE she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colors gay.
She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

To look down to Camelot.

She knows not what the curse may be,

And so she weaveth steadily,

And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near,

Winding down to Camelot :