chorus,

The tramp of armies, and the roar of fight,

Not war's hot smoke to taint the sweet morn o'er us,

Nor blaze of pillage, reddening up the night.

O, let thy lays prolong that angel-singing,

Girdling with music the Redeemer's star,

And breathe God's peace, to earth 'glad tidings' bringing

From the near heavens, of old so dim and far!

ALEXANDER SMITH.

[1830-1867.]

LADY BARBARA.

EARL GAWAIN Wooed the Lady Barbara, High-thoughted Barbara, so white and

cold!

'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw,

In soft green light his passion he has told.

When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold,

The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear Framed passion-trembled ditties manifold;

Silent she sat his amorous breath to hear,

With calm and steady eyes; her heart was otherwhere.

He sighed for her through all the summer weeks;

Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs

Bore glorious apples with smooth, shining cheeks,

Earl Gawain came and whispered, "Lady,

rouse!

Thou art no vestal held in holy vows; Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath."

Her father's blood leapt up unto her brows,

Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking

eye.

It fled, when I burst forth into a cry,

A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep;

I hid, but in all corners they did pry, And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap;

The clouds are on the Oberland,

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me from sweet sleep.

"Strange constellations burned above my head,

Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew,

Strange shapes, like shadows, through the clear sea fled,

As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through,

Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue.

Ah, shall I see thee, while a flush

Of startled pleasure floods thy brow, Quick through the oleanders brush, And clap thy hands, and cry, 'Tis thou?

Or hast thou long since wandered back, Daughter of France! to France, thy home;

And flitted down the flowery track Where feet like thine too lightly come?

Doth riotous laughter now replace

Thy smile, and rouge, with stony glare, Thy cheek's soft hue and fluttering lace The kerchief that enwound thy hair?

Or is it over?-art thou dead?

Dead?- and no warning shiver ran Across my heart, to say thy thread

Of life was cut, and closed thy span!

Could from earth's ways that figure slight
Be lost, and I not feel 't was so?
Of that fresh voice the gay delight

Fail from earth's air, and I not know?

Or shall I find thee still, but changed, But not the Marguerite of thy prime? With all thy being rearranged,

Passed through the crucible of time;

With spirit vanished, beauty waned,
And hardly yet a glance, a tone,
A gesture, anything, - retained'

Of all that was my Marguerite's own?

I will not know!-for wherefore try To things by mortal course that live A shadowy durability

For which they were not meant to give?

Like driftwood spars which meet and pass Upon the boundless ocean-plain,

Let the long contention cease!
Geese are swans, and swans are geese.
Let them have it how they will!
Thou art tired; best be still! ̧

They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee.

Better men fared thus before thee;
Fired their ringing shot and passed,
Hotly charged, and broke at last.

Let the victors, when they come,
Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
When the forts of folly fall,
Find thy body by the wall.

ROBERT LORD LYTTON.

THE ARTIST.

O ARTIST, range not over-wide:
Lest what thou seek be haply hid
In bramble-blossoms at thy side,
Or shut within the daisy-lid.
God's glory lies not out of reach.
The moss we crush beneath our feet,
The pebbles on the wet sea-beach,
Have solemn meanings strange and

sweet.

The peasant at his cottage door

May teach thee more than Plato knew; See that thou scorn him not: adore God in him, and thy nature too.

Know well thy friends. The woodbine's breath,

The woolly tendril on the vine,
Are more to thee than Cato's death,
Or Cicero's words to Catiline.

The wild rose is thy next in blood:
Share Nature with her, and thy heart.
The kingcups are thy sisterhood:
Consult them duly on thine art.
The Genius on thy daily ways

Shall meet, and take thee by the hand:

But serve him not as who obeys:

He is thy slave if thou command:

And blossoms on the blackberry-stalks He shall enchant as thou dost pass,

Till they drop gold upon thy walks, And diamonds in the dewy grass.

Be quiet. Take things as they come: Each hour will draw out some surprise. With blessing let the days go home: Thou shalt have thanks from evening skies.

Lean not on one mind constantly:

Lest, where one stood before, two fall. Something God hath to say to thee

Worth hearing from the lips of all.

All things are thine estate: yet must
Thou first display the title-deeds,
And sue the world. Be strong and trust
High instincts more than all the creeds.

The world of Thought is packed so tight,
If thou stand up another tumbles:
Heed it not, though thou have to fight
With giants; whoso follows stumbles.

Assert thyself: and by and by

The world will come and lean on thee. But seek not praise of men: thereby Shall false shows cheat thee. Boldly be.

Each man was worthy at the first:

God spake to us ere we were born: But we forget. The land is curst:

We plant the brier, reap the thorn.

Remember, every man He made

Is different has some deed to do, Some work to work. Be undismayed, Though thine be humble: do it too.

Not all the wisdom of the schools

Is wise for thee. Hast thou to speak? No man hath spoken for thee. Rules Are well but never fear to break

The scaffolding of other souls:

It was not meant for thee to mount; Though it may serve thee. Separate

wholes

Make up the sum of God's account.

Earth's number-scale is near us set;
The total God alone can see;
But each some fraction: shall I fret
If you see Four where I saw Three?

A unit's loss the sum would mar;
Therefore if I have One or Two,

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I am as rich as others are,
And help the whole as well as you.
This wild white rosebud in my hand

Hath meanings meant for me alone,
Which no one else can understand:
To you it breathes with altered tone:
We go to Nature, not as lords,

But servants; and she treats us thus: Speaks to us with indifferent words, And from a distance looks at us.

Let us go boldly, as we ought,

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And say to her, We are a part Of that supreme original Thought Which did conceive thee what thou ar "We will not have this lofty look:

Thou shalt fall down, and recognize Thy kings: we will write in thy book; Command thee with our eyes."

She hath usurpt us. She should be

Our model; but we have become

Her miniature-painters. So when we
Entreat her softly, she is dumb.

Nor serve the subject overmuch:

Nor rhythm and rhyme, nor color and form.

Know Truth hath all great graces, such
As shall with these thy work inform.

We ransack History's tattered page:
We prate of epoch and costume:
Call this, and that, the Classic Age:
Choose tunicrow, new helm and plume:

But while we halt in weak debate

"Twixt that and this appropriate theme, The offended wild-flowers stare and wait, The bird hoots at us from the stream.

Next, as to laws. What 's beautiful
We recognize in form and face:
And judge it thus, and thus, by rule,
As perfect law brings perfect grace :
If through the effect we drag the cause,
Dissect, divide, anatomize,
Results are lost in loathsome laws,

And all the ancient beauty dies:

Till we, instead of bloom and light,

See only sinews, nerves, and veins; Nor will the effect and cause unite, For one is lost if one remains :