VIII. And hers is still the spendthrift heart, that, when a wayward girl, In passion's hour to pleasure's bowl cast in a priceless pearl; But oh, her wealth of hoarded gems were all too poor to pay The one rich pearl, in this wild hour her fears have flung away! IX. The princely pearl to whom her brow, though dark, seemed, oh, how fair! And crowns were only precious things, when in her raven hair; Who paid her smiles with diadems,—and bought, at empire's cost, The love which he must lose to-day,—when all beside is lost! X. She hath risen like a queen -a pause—a moment's pause !- and now One word hath torn the golden badge from off her royal brow! The prows are turned to Egypt, and the flying sails unfurled, And the western breeze hath borne from him the fortunes of the world! THOMAS K. HERVEY. Charge of the Light Brigade. HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Then they rode back, but not,— Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered: Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Noble six hundred! ALFRED TENNYSON. The Lotus-Eaters. 1. ‘OURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land; "Co "This mounting wave shall roll us shoeward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemèd always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, THE LOTUS-EATERS. II. A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, And some through wavering lights and shadows broke, They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flushed: and, dewed with showery drops, III. The charmed sunset lingered low adown In the red West: through mountain-clefts the dale A land where all things always seemed the same! IV. Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, V. They sat them down upon the yellow sand, And sweet it was to dream of Father-land, CHORIC SONG. I. THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And through the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. II. Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings, And cease our wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, "There is no joy but calm !" Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? |