By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Born 1775. Died 1864.

SWEET SCENTS.

When hath wind or rain

Borne hard upon weak plants that wanted me,

And I (however they might bluster round)
Walkt off? 'Twere most ungrateful for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,

And nurse and pillow the dull memory

That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht it; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoiled, nor lost one grain of gold.

THE SHELL.

I HAVE sinuous shells of pearly hue

Within, and they that lustre have imbibed
In the Sun's palace porch, where when unyoked
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the wave:
Shake one and it awakens, then apply
Its polished lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,

And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.

From Gebir.

ROSE AYLMER.

H what avails the sceptered race,

OH

Oh what the form divine!

What every virtue, every grace!

Rose Aylmer, all were thine.

Rose Aylmer whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,

A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.

I

ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.

STROVE with none, for none was worth my strife,
Nature I loved, and next to nature, Art;

I warmed both hands before the fire of life,
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.

Born 1835. Died 1864.

A LOST CHORD.

EATED one day at the Organ,

SEA

I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing,
Or what I was dreaming then;
But I struck one chord of music,
Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight

Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings.
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine,

Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again,-
It may be that only in Heaven
I shall hear that grand Amen.

JOHN KEBLE.

Born 1792. Died 1866.

L

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

ESSONS sweet of spring returning,

Welcome to the thoughtful heart! May I call ye sense or learning, Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art? Be your title what it may, Sweet the lengthening April day, While with you the soul is free,

Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,

Touched by light, with heavenly warning

Your transporting chords ring out.

Every leaf in every nook,

Every wave in every brook,

Chanting with a solemn voice,

Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,
Where the landscape in its glory

Teaches truth to wandering men :

Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die,-
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,

Every way her free arms flinging

O'er the moist and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipped with vernal red,
And her kindly flower displayed
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,

But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile,
Thus I learn Contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving
For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest darkest tree,

There they plunge, the light declining

All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,
Hardly will they fleet aloof;

So they live in modest ways,
Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.