To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,

Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the meer the wailing died away.

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell: At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound, And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we Sat rapt it was the tone with which he readPerhaps some modern touches here and there

Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness-
Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;
I know not: but we sitting, as I said,

The cock crew loud; as at that time of year

The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:

Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill used, that's nothing!" drew a little back,

"There now

And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,
That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue :
And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd
To sail with Arthur under looming shores,
Point after point, till on to dawn, when dreams
Begin to feel the truth and stir of day,

To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,
There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore
King Arthur like a modern gentleman

Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,
"Arthur is come again: he cannot die.”

Then those that stood upon the hills behind
Repeated"Come again, and thrice as fair;"

And, further inland, voices echoed "Come

With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal,

That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed

The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn.

THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER;

OR,

THE PICTURES.

THIS morning is the morning of the day,
When I and Eustace from the city went
To see the Gardener's Daughter; I and he,
Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete
Portion'd in halves between us, that we grew
The fable of the city where we dwelt.

My Eustace might have sat for Hercules;
So muscular he spread, so broad of breast.
He, by some law that holds in love, and draws
The greater to the lesser, long desired

A certain miracle of symmetry,

A miniature of loveliness, all grace

Summ'd up and closed in little ;- Juliet, she

So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she

To me myself, for some three careless moons,
The summer pilot of an empty heart

Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not

Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, "When will you paint like this?" and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) ""Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all,

Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes
Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair

More black than ashbuds in the front of March."
And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see
The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,
You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece."
And up we rose, and on the spur we went.
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite
Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.