THE BROOK-SIDE

I WANDER'D by the brook-side,
I wander'd by the mill;

I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree;
I watch'd the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid;

8

For I listen'd for a footfall,

I listen'd for a word,

But the beating of my own heart

Was all the sound I heard.

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He came not,-no, he came not,

The night came on alone,

The little stars sat, one by one,

Each on his golden throne;

The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,-
But the beating of my own heart,
Was all the sound I heard.

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1830.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind:
It drew me nearer-nearer,
We did not speak one word,

For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

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Richard Monckton Milnes.

A HEALTH

I FILL this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex
The seeming paragon;
To whom the better elements

And kindly stars have given
A form so fair, that, like the air,
'Tis less of earth than heaven.

Her every tone is music's own,
Like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody
Dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they,
And from her lips each flows,
As one may see the burdened bee
Forth issue from the rose.

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1825.

A Health

Affections are as thoughts to her,
The measures of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrancy,
The freshness of young flowers;
And lovely passions, changing oft,
So fill her, she appears

The image of themselves by turns,-
The idol of past years!

Of her bright face one glance will trace
A picture on the brain,

And of her voice in echoing hearts

A sound must long remain;
But memory, such as mine of her,
So very much endears,

When death is nigh my latest sigh
Will not be life's, but hers.

I fill this cup to one made up
Of loveliness alone,

A woman, of her gentle sex

The seeming paragon—

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32

Her health! and would on earth there stood

Some more of such a frame,

That life might be all poetry,

And weariness a name.

40

Edward Coate Pinkney.

VII

"ASK ME NO MORE"

From The Princess

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take

the shape

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape; But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

5

IQ

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
I strove against the stream and all in vain :
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more.

1850.

Lord Tennyson.

15

66

THE SPLENDOR FALLS ON

CASTLE WALLS"

From The Princess

THE splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,

dying.

O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,

dying.

1850.

Lord Tennyson.

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