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Yet in the long years liker must they grow;
The man be more of woman, she of man;
He gain in sweetness and in moral height,
Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world;
She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care,
Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind;
Till at the last she set herself to man,
Like perfect music unto noble words;
And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time,
Sit side by side, full-summed in all their powers,
Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be,
Self-reverent each and reverencing each,
Distinct in individualities,
But like each other even as those who love.
Then comes the statelier Eden back to men :
Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm :
Then springs the crowning race of human kind.
May these things be!

EXTRACT FROM THE “RHYME OF THE DUCHESS MAY.

Mrs. Browning. Ho! the breach yawns into ruin, and roars up against her suing,–

Toll slowly! With the inarticulate din, and the dreadful falling in

Shrieks of doing and undoing!

Twice he wrung her hands in twain; but the small hands closed again,

Toll slowly! Back he reined the steed— back, back! but she trailed along his track,

With a frantic clasp and strain!

Evermore the foeman pour through the crash of window and door,

Toll slowly! And the shouts of Leigh and Leigh, and the shrieks of " kill !” and 66 flee!”

Strike up clear the general roar,

Thrice he wrung her hands in twain, — but they closed and clung again,

Toll slowly! Wild she clung, as one, withstood, clasps a Christ upon the rood,

In a spasm of deathly pain.

She clung wild and she clung mute, - with her shuddering lips half-shut,

Toll slowly! Her head fallen as in a swound, - hair and knee swept on the ground,

She clung wild to stirrup and foot.

Back he reined his steed, back-thrown on the slippery coping stone,

Toll slowly! Back the iron hoofs did grind, on the battlement behind,

Whence a hundred feet went down.

And his heel did press and goad on the quivering flank bestrode,

Toll slowly! “ Friends, and brothers ! save my wife! — Pardon, sweet, in change for life,

But I ride alone to God!

Strait as if the Holy name did upbreathe her as a flame,

Toll slowly! She upsprang,

she rose upright !— in his selle she sat in sight;

By her love she overcame.

And her head was on his breast, where she smiled as one at rest,

Toll slowly! “Ring,” she cried, “O vesper-bell, in the beech-wood's old chapelle!

But the passing bell rings best.”

They have caught out at the rein, which Sir Guy threw loose - in vain,

Toll slowly! For the horse in stark despair, with his front hoofs poised in air,

On the last verge, rears amain.

And he hangs, he rocks between - and his nostrils curdle in,

Toll slowly! and he shivers head and hoof- and the flakes of foam fall off ;

And his face grows fierce and thin!

And a look of human woe, from his staring eyes did go –

Toll slowly! And a sharp cry uttered he, in a foretold agony

Of the headlong death below,

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And, “Ring, ring, - thou passing bell,” still she cried, “i' the old chapelle!

Toll slowly! Then back-toppling, crashing back- - a dead weight flung out to wrack,

Horse and riders overfell!

EXTRACT FROM “THE CELESTIAL COUNTRY.

Bernard of Cluni. Trans. by John Mason Neale.
For thee, O dear, dear Country !

Mine eyes their vigils keep;
For very love, beholding

Thy happy name, they weep.
The mention of thy glory

Is unction to the breast,
And medicine in sickness,

And love, and life, and rest.

O one, O onely Mansion!

O Paradise of Joy!
Where tears are ever banished,

And smiles have no alloy,
Beside thy living waters

All plants are, great and small,
The cedar of the forest,

The hyssop of the wall;
With jaspers glow thy bulwarks,

Thy streets with emeralds blaze,
The sardius and the topaz

Unite in thee their rays;
Thine ageless walls are bonded

With amethyst unpriced :
Thy saints build up its fabric,

And the corner-stone is CHRIST.

Thou hast no shore, fair Ocean!

Thou hast no time, bright day!
Dear fountain of refreshment

To pilgrims far away!
Upon the Rock of Ages

They raise thy holy tower;

Thine is the victor's laurel,

And thine the golden dower.

Jerusalem the golden,

With milk and honey blest, Beneath thy contemplation

Sink heart and voice oppressed. I know not, 0 I know not,

What social joys are there! What radiancy of glory,

What light beyond compare !

They stand those halls of Sion,

Conjubilant with song,
And bright with many an angel,

And all the martyr throng;
The Prince is ever in them,

The daylight is serene; The pastures of the Blessed

Are decked in glorious sheen.

Jerusalem the glorious !

The glory of the Elect! O dear and future vision

That eager hearts expect ! Even now by faith I see thee,

Even here thy walls discern; To thee my thoughts are kindled,

And strive, and pant, and years.

Exult, o dust and ashes !

The Lord shall be thy part; His only, His for ever,

Thou shalt be, and thou art! Exult, o dust and ashes !

The Lord shall be thy part; His only, His for ever,

Thou shalt be, and thou art !

THE SOLDIER FROM BINGEN.

Mrs. No ton.

A Soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's

tears ;
But a comrade stood beside him, while the life-blood ebbed away;
And bent with pitying glance to hear each word he had to say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said : “I never more shall see my own — my native land !
Take a message and a token to the distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen — at Bingen on the Rhine!

“ Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd

around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun;
And 'midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts,— the last of many scars!
But some were young, and suddenly beheld Life's morn decline,
And one had come from Bingen - fair Bingen on the Rhine!

“ Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age,
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage;
For my father was a soldier, and even when a child,
My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,
I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword !
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine,
On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine!

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“ Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,
When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant

tread;
But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,
For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die!
And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name
To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;
And to hang the old sword in its place—(my father's sword and

mine),
For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine!

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