Gleamed a face of airy beauty with its heavenly eyes on

mine

Gleamed and vanished in a moment-O that face was surely thine

Out of heaven, Barbara !

O pallid, pallid face!

O earnest eyes

of grace!

When last I saw thee, dearest, it was in another place. You came running forth to meet me with my love-gift on your wrist :

The flutter of a long white dress, then all was lost in mist

A purple stain of agony was on the mouth I kissed,
That wild morning, Barbara.

I searched, in my despair,

Sunny noon and midnight air ;

I could not drive away the thought that you were lingering there.

O many

and many a winter night I sat when you were gone,

My worn face buried in my hands, beside the fire alone— Within the dripping churchyard, the rain plashing on your stone,

You were sleeping, Barbara.

'Mong angels, do you think

Of the precious golden link

I clasped around your happy arm while sitting by yon brink?

Or when that night of gliding dance, of laughter and

guitars,

Was emptied of its music, and we watched, through latticed bars,

The silent midnight heaven creeping o'er us with its stars, Till the day broke, Barbara?

In the years I've changed;

Wild and far my heart hath ranged,

And many sins and errors now have been on me avenged; But to you I have been faithful, whatsoever good I lacked ; I loved you, and above my life still hangs that love intact— Your love the trembling rainbow, I the reckless cataract— Still I love you, Barbara.

Yet, love, I am unblest ;

With many doubts opprest,

I wander like a desert wind, without a place of rest.
Could I but win you for an hour from off that starry shore,
The hunger of my soul were stilled, for Death hath told

you more

Than the melancholy world doth know; things deeper than all lore

You could teach me, Barbara.

In vain, in vain, in vain,

You will never come again.

There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of

rain;

The gloaming closes slowly round, loud winds are in the tree, Round selfish shores for ever moans the hurt and wounded

sea,

There is no rest upon the earth, peace is with Death and

thee,

Barbara!

ALEXANDER SMITH

AMATURUS

OMEWHERE beneath the sun,
These quivering heart-strings prove it,

Somewhere there must be one

Made for this soul, to move it;

Some one that hides her sweetness From neighbours whom she slights, Nor can attain completeness,

Nor give her heart its rights; Some one whom I could court With no great change of manner, Still holding reason's fort,

Though waving fancy's banner; A lady, not so queenly

As to disdain my hand, Yet born to smile serenely

Like those that rule the land ; Noble, but not too proud;

With soft hair simply folded, And bright face crescent-browed, And throat by Muses moulded; And eyelids lightly falling

On little glistening seas,
Deep-calm, when gales are brawling,
Though stirred by every breeze;
Swift voice, like flight of dove
Through minster-arches floating,
With sudden turns, when love
Gets overnear to doting;
Keen lips, that shape soft sayings
Like crystals of the snow,
With pretty half-betrayings

Of things one may not know
Fair hand, whose touches thrill,
Like golden rod of wonder,
Which Hermes wields at will
Spirit and flesh to sunder;
Light foot, to press the stirrup
In fearlessness and glee,
Or dance, till finches chirrup,
And stars sink to the sea,

;

Forth, Love, and find this maid,

Wherever she be hidden :
Speak, Love, be not afraid,

But plead as thou art bidden :
And say, that he who taught thee
His yearning want and pain,
Too dearly, dearly bought thee
To part with thee in vain.

SONNET

BUT were I loved, as I desire to be,

WILLIAM CORY

What is there in the great sphere of the earth,
And range of evil between death and birth,
That I should fear—if I were loved by thee?

All the inner, all the outer world of pain

Clear Love would pierce and cleave, if thou wert mine,
As I have heard that, somewhere in the main,
Fresh-water springs come up through the bitter brine.
'Twere joy, not fear, claspt hand-in-hand with thee,
To wait for death-mute-careless of all ills,
Apart upon a mountain, though the surge
Of some new deluge from a thousand hills
Flung leagues of roaring foam into the gorge
Below us, as far on as eye could see.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

SONG FROM "THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER "

T is the miller's daughter,

IT

And she is grown so dear, so dear,

That I would be the jewel

That trembles in her ear:

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty dainty waist,
And her heart would beat against me,
In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs,
And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

FATIMA 1

LOVE, Love, Love!

O withering might!

O sun, that from thy noonday height

Shudderest when I strain my sight,

Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light,

Lo, falling from my constant mind,
Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind,
I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.

Last night I wasted hateful hours
Below the city's eastern towers:
I thirsted for the brooks, the showers :
I roll'd among the tender flowers :

1 This magnificent poem originally appeared in Poems, by Alfred Tennyson, 1833, under the title

φαίνεταί μοι κήνος ἴσος θέοισιν Εμμεν ὤνηρ

a quotation from the second fragment of Sappho-of which this poem is an elaboration, as it is at the same time of Catullus's famous imitation of Sappho, Catullus, li., "Ad Lesbiam". The poem in 1833 was without the second stanza.