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From The Atbenæum. This Poet must have had a speechless sense From the young Australian poet, Mr. Henry Of some dead Summer's boundless affluence : Kendall, whom our readers will remember, we Else whither can we trace the passioned lore have received another parcel of verse. Many of Beauty, steeping to the very core persons, we think, must feel an interest in this His royal Verse, and that rare light which lies singer at the Antipodes, whose verse has in it so About it, like a Sunset in the skies? much of youth and strength. Mr. Kendall still

ALFRED TENNYSON. appears to find his best delight in sombre, tragic The silvery dimness of a happy dream, themes. Take this specimen from the new ar- I've known of late :-Methought where Byron rivals :

moans, ASTARTE.

Like some wild gulf in melancholy zones,
Across the dripping ridges-

I passed, tear-blinded ! Once a lurid gleam
Oh, look luxurious Night!

Of stormy sunset loitered on the Sea,
the bright-haired beauty,- While travelling troubled, like a straitened stream,
My luminous delight:

The voice of Shelley died away from me ;-
My luminous delight!

Still sore at heart, I reached a lake-lit lea ;
So hush, ye shores, your roar ;

And then, the green-mossed glades, with many a That my Soul may sleep, forgetting

grove Dead Love's wild Nevermore !

Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love;

And lastly, Locksley Hall; from whence did rise Astarté ! Syrian Sister!

A haunting Song, that blew and breathed and blew, Your face is wet with tears ;

With rare delights :—'twas there I woke and knew I think you know the Secret

The sumptuous comfort left in drowsy eyes.
One heart hath held for years !
One heart hath held for years.

But hide your hapless lore,

WHEN the children are hushed in the nursery, And, my sweet-my Syrian Sister,

And the swallow sleeps in the eaves,
Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

And the night-wind is murmuring secrets Ah, Helen Hope in Heaven,

Apart to the listening leaves ;
My queen of Long Ago,

Then I open the inner chamber
I've swooned with adoration ;

That was closed from the dust of day,
But could not tell you so !

And gently undraw the curtain
Or dared not tell you so,

Where my holiest treasures lay.
My radient queen of yore!

Sweet spirits that may not slumber;
And you've passed away, and left me

Cool shadows from lights now gone ;
Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

And the echo of voices sounding,

All sounding for me alone.
Astarté knoweth, darling,

And, blending among the others,
Of eyes that once did weep,

One echo is softer yet ;
What time out-wearied Passion

One shadow is cooler, deeper ;
Hath kissed your lips in sleep :

And my dimming eyes grow wct.
Hath kissed your lips in sleep!
But now these tears are o'er :

For the image I gaze on longest,
Gone, my Saint, with many a moan, to

Is the image that blessed my youth ;
Dead Love's wild Nevermore !

The angel that lit my journey

With her lamp of love and truth.
If I am past all crying,

We travelled life's way together
What thoughts are maddening me,

A little while side by side ;
Of you, my darling, dying

And when I grew faint or weary,
Upon the lone wide Sea ?

That light was my strength and guide.
Upon the lone wide Sea !
Ah ! hush, ye shores, your roar ;

And dearer it grew-how dearer!
That my soul may sleep, forgetting

Till I watched it wane and fade:
Dead Love's wild Nevermore!

And my angel said, as we parted,

Be patient, be not afraid. We also extract the following sonnets on Byron And when I am sick and weary and Tennyson :

With the heat and the dust of the day,

How the sense of her words comes o'er me,-

Her words ere she went away.
Who framed the stanzn of “Childe Harold?

And I ask for a patient wisdom,
It was, who, halting on a stormy shore,

As I journey the way alone ; Knew well the lofty voice which evermore, Till I tread on the golden threshold In grand distress, doth haunt the sleepless Sea, Of the heaven where she is gone. With solemn sounds! And as each wave did When the children are hushed in the nursery, roll

And the swallow sleeps in the eaves, Till one came up, the mightiest of the whole, And the night-wind is murm

urmuring secrets To sweep and surge across a vacant lea,

Apart to the listening leaves. Wild words were wedded to wild melody ! -From Winter Weavings. By Isabella Lau.

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