Wrap him in this; I need it less;
Fear not; they shall know;
Mark the place, yon stunted larch,
Forward! On they go.

And silent on their silent march
Down sank the snow,

O'er his features, as he lies,

Calms the wrench of pain;

Close, faint eyes; pass, cruel skies;
Freezing mountain plain.

With far soft sounds the stillness teems

Church bells, voices low;

Passing into English dreams

There amid the snow,

Looking, looking for the mark

Down the others came ;

Struggling through the snowdrifts stark;
Calling out his name;

Here or there the drifts are deep;
Have we passed him?" No.

Look, a little growing heap,

Snow above the snow,

Where, heavy on his heavy sleep,

Down fell the snow.

Strong hands raised him; voices strong
Spoke within his ears:

Ah, his dreams had softer tongues;
Neither now he hears.

One more gone for England's sake,
Where so many go;

Lying down, without complaint;
Dying in the snow.
Starving, striving, for her sake;
Dying in the snow.

Simply done his soldier's part

Through long months of woe;
All endured with soldier heart-
Battle, famine, snow;
Noble, nameless, English heart,
Snow-cold, in snow.

44

EDWIN ARNOLD.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER

In Roman households, when their dear ones died,

Thrice by his name the living called the dead;

And silence only answering as they cried, Ilicet-" go thou then!"-the mourners said.

Ilicet let her part! the Poet's child,
Herself a mistress of the lyric song:
Ilicet to a world so sad and wild

To wish her back were far less love than wrong.

Ilicet hard the word for those to say Who know what gentleness is gone from earth; [day, Harder for those whose dwelling day by Shone with her presence-echoed to her mirth.

Yet, if He wills it-whom she soars to meet, The Lord of this world's vineyard-shall we ask,

Who toil on, in the burden and the heat, A later wage for her a longer task?

Ilicet let her go! though it were brave,— In the hot vintage, where the strongest fail, [have, Weeding God's grapes from thistles-still to Her silver hymns o'er weariness prevail !

To hear her gentle, certain spirit of ruth Share its great sureties with less happy brothers,

And from eyes bright with Heav'n's light -teach the truth

Of "little children pleading for their mothers."

Ilicet! otherwhere they need those strains,

Sounding so true for men-albeit low; / A throne was vacant (though its steps were pains)

For a soul, tried, pure, perfect-let her go!

That longer life had sunned to fruit of gold."

Be still and see !-God's year, and day, and hour,

By lapse of mortal minutes is not told.

Who go are called-ilicet ! let her go! Though a sweet harp is silent in the land, A soft voice hushed-and,

below,

never more

Poet and poet's child join song and hand.

Ilicet ilicet ! nos abimus !

To that divinest region of the skies, Whence with clear sight she sees, knows,

We shall attain !-Vex not the dead with sighs.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE GARDEN OF PROSERPINE

Here, where the world is quiet;
Here where all trouble seems
Dead winds' and spent waves' riot
In doubtful dreams of dreams;
I watch the green field growing
For reaping folk and sowing,
For harvest-time and mowing,
A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,
And men that laugh and weep;
Of what may come hereafter,

For men that sow to reap:
I am weary of days and hours,
Blown buds of barren flowers,
Desires and dreams and powers,
And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,
And far from eye or ear
Wan waves and wet winds labour,
Weak ships and spirits steer;
They drive adrift and whither
They wot not who make thither
But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.