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Fill the mind with all the vastness hidden by the noon-day light,

Fill the heart with love for all that wanders with us in the night;

Till the something in the flower, till the something in the stone,

Shall become as love within them-beating hearts that hear our own.

Not so changed, illustrious Master, not so changed in all are we;

Still the grateful heart remembers; witness this our love for thee.

Courage, aye, and faith, O Poet! Still when first the warm wind blows

Little birds shall nest in England, hedges bloom and bear the rose;

England still has men and maidens fit for love and firm in need;

England still may find salvation though she lose both crown and creed.

LOUIS Belrose, Jr.

TENNYSON.

Born 5th August, 1809: Died 6th October, 1892.

O TENNYSON! Of poets loved the best;
Greatest in Queen Victoria's happy reign;

Now thou hast passed thy "bourne of Time and
Place"

And smiling sees thy "Pilot face to face" With head uncovered and on bended Knee

A rosebud, tear-stained, bring I for thy breast— (The full-moon, sailing slowly tow'rds the West This Autumn morn-after the wind and rain) Or rugged verse, in all its poverty Feebly to tell how dear thy poetry To me since ever boyhood's dreamy time: Master of Song! thy fame in every clime

Shall live-for Prophets' voice and vision thine "Thro' all the ages" till suns no more shall shine. JOHN FULLERTON.

-For The Magazine of Poetry.

TENNYSON.

THE brightest star in Britain's sky of fame
Has passed beyond the range of mortal sight;
But on the hearts of men a deathless name
Is graved in characters of golden light.

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To-day is dole in Astolat, and dole

In Celidon; the forest dole and tears

In joyous garb blackhooded lean the spears,
The nuns of Almesbury sound a mournful toll,
And Guinevere kneeling weeps and prays for Mer-
lin's soul.

A wailing cometh from the shores that veil
Avilions island valley; on the mere

Looms through the mist and wet winds weeping blear

A dusky barge, which without oar or sail

Fades to the far-off fields where falls nor snow nor hail.

Of all his wounds he will be healed now;

Wounds of harsh time and vulnerable life, Fatigue of rest and weariness of strife, Doubt and the long deep questionings that plough The forehead of age but bring no harvest to the brow.

And there he will be comforted; but we

Must watch like Percival the dwindling light That slowly shrouds him darkling from our sight. From that great deep to the great deep hath he passed,

And if now he knows, is mute eternally.

From Somersby's ivied tower there sinks and swells
A low slow peal that mournfully is rolled
Over the long gray fields and glimmering world,
To where 'twixt sandy tracts and moorland fills
Remembers Locksley Hall his musical farewells.

And many a sinewy youth on Cam to-day,

Suspends the dripping oar and lets his boat
Like dreaming water-lily drift and float;
While murmuring to himself the undying lay,
That haunts the babbling Wye and Severn's dirgeful
bay.

The bole of the broad oak whose knotted knees,
Lie hidden in the fern of Cumnor Chase,
Feels stirred afresh as when Olivia's face
Lay warm against its rind, though now it sees—
Not love, but death approach, and shivers in the
breeze.

In many a vicarage garden dense with age,

The haunt of pairing throstles; many a grange Moted against the assault and siege of chance, Fair eyes consult anew the cherished sage, And now and then a tear falls, blistering the page.

April will blossom again. Again will ring

With cuckoo's call and yaffel's flying scream And in veiled sleep the nightingale will dream,

Warbling as if awake, but what will bring

His sweet note back? He mute, it scarcely will be spring.

The season's sorrow for him and the hours
Droop like to bees belated in the rain.
The unmoving shadow of a pensive pain
Lies on the lawn and lingers on the flowers.
And sweet and sad seem one, in woodbine woven
bowers.

In English gardens fringed with English foam
Or girt with English woods he loved to dwell,
Singing of English lives in thorp or dell,
Orchard or croft, so that when now we roam
Through them and find him not, it scarcely feels
like home.

And England's glories stirred him, as the swell
Of bluff winds blowing from Atlantic brine
Stirs mightier music in the murmuring pine.
Then sweet notes waxed too strong within his shell
And bristling rose the lines, and billowy rose and
fell.

So England mourns for Merlin, though its tears
Flow not from bitter source that wells in vain,
But kindred rather to the rippling rain
That brings the daffodil sheaths and jonquil spears
When winter weeps away, and April reappears.

For hath England lacked a voice to sing

Her fairness and her fame, nor will she now. Silence awhile may brood upon the bough, But shortly once again the isle will ring With wakening winds of March and rhapsodies of spring.

From Arthur unto Alfred, Alfred crowned

Monarch and minstrel both, to Edward's day;
From Edward's to Elizabeth's the lay

Of valor and love hath never ceased to sound;
But song and sword are twin, indissolubly bound.
Nor shall in Britain taliessin tire

Transmitting through his stock the sacred strain, When fresh renown prolongs Victoria's reign, Some patriot hand will sweep the living lyre And prove with native notes that Merlin was his sire. ALFRED AUSTIN.

TENNYSON.

No moaning on the bar; sail forth strong ship,
Into that gloam which has God's face for a far light.
Not a dirge, but a proud farewell from each fond
lip,

And praise, abounding praise, and fame's faint starlight,

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"Of farmers as his brothers';

The toiling, patient mothers,

That lived for their dear boys,

Had saintly grace for him.

Time could not dim

The light of happy days and homely joys; And so he sang his heart,

And people loved the singer,

The sweet bringer

Of joys that ne'er grow old and ne'er depart.

These were his recreations,

These were the inspirations

He drew from field and farm;

But at the quick alarm,

The cry of hearts a-bleeding,

He left his cattle feeding,

His uplands and the stillness of the morn,

And with a heart new born

As to redress man's wrong,

He forged his song anew,

Making it firm and true,

To shield the weak and helpless from the strong.

O, knightly hand,

That dared to grasp the dark, soiled hand

Which others spurned!

O, tender heart,

That ever longed to bear the sufferers' part,

Ye now are, mid the sufferer's sorrow, laid at rest.

Defender of the oppressed!

Stout hater of the wrong!

White soul, that burned

With all a poet's fire

To raise the Nation higher

Into God's purer light,—

On wings of lofty flight,

Which oft have borne thee through the realm of song,

Thou now has sought thy rest upon Death's holier height,

From which descending to a sunny land, Thou yet shall greet the children on the strand Of a bright golden sea,

Bringing a crown for thee,

Great, simple singer of the People's heart! ALLEN EASTMAN CROSs. -New England Magazine, November, 1892.

TO WHITTIER.

ON READING "AN AUTOGRAPH."

IF thou, O friend, canst say thy name is traced On sands by waves o'errun, or frosted pane, Then why should any seek far heights to gain? What human name but must be swift effaced?

'Tis true, not all the favored sons of Fame Can hope to wear her guerdon through the years; But thy beloved name is writ with tears Through all our nation's life, through doubt, through blame;

Through hope, despair; through blood of sacrifice, Deep-graven where no sands from any shore, Nor frosts of time, can touch, forevermoreBeloved bard, upon our heart it lies!

JEANIE OLIVer Smith.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

BORN DECEMBER, 1807. DIED 7TH SEPTEMBER,

1892.

FRIEND, thou and I had known each other long
Thro' letters, legendary verse and song;
And now to-day above thy tear-stained bier

I mourn as for a father loved and dear.

"The Eternal Gate" is passed, a Freeman thou The fadeless green leaf round thy sunlit brow. "Among the Hills" or on "The Beach" with thee At Nature's shrine I still will bow the knee. "Voices of Freedom" these the nation's heart Stirred to its depths, as for the poor slave sold And scourged, and when but few would take his

part,

Thou, his true friend, right fearlessly and bold
Didst plead, till galled with chains no more he lay
But walked with head erect and face as day.
JOHN FULLERTON,
-For The Magazine of Poetry.

TO J. G. WHITTIER ON HIS EIGHTIETH
BIRTHDAY.

FRIEND, whom thy fourscore winters leave more dear

Than when life's roseate summer on thy cheek Burned in, the flush of manhood's manliest year; Lonely, how lonely! is the snowy peak

Thy feet have reached, and mine have climbed so near!

Close on thy footsteps mid the landscape drear
I stretch my hand thine answering grasp to seek,
Warm with the love no rippling rhymes can
speak!

Look backwards! from thy lofty height survey
Thy years of toil, of peaceful victories won,
Of dreams made real, largest hopes outrun!
Look forward! brighter than earth's morning ray
Streams the pure light of Heaven's unsetting sun,
The all unclouded dawn of life's Immortal Day!
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

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