The moonlight touching o'er a ter

race

One tall Agavè above the lake.

What more? we took our last adieu, And up the snowy Splugen drew,

But ere we reach'd the highest sum

mit

I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.

It told of England then to me,
And now it tells of Italy.

O love, we two shall go no longer
To lands of summer across the sea;

So dear a life your arms enfold
Whose crying is a cry for gold:

Yet here to-night in this dark city,
When ill and weary, alone and cold,

I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry, This nurseling of another sky

Still in the little book you lent me, And where you tenderly laid it by:

And I forgot the clouded Forth,
The gloom that saddens Heaven and
Earth

The bitter east, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.

Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain, Perchance, to charm a vacant brain, Perchance, to dream you still beside

me,

My fancy fled to the South again.

TO THE REV. F. D. MAURICE.

COME, when no graver cares employ, God-father, come and see your boy:

Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy.

For, being of that honest few,
Who give the Fiend himself his due,
Should eighty thousand college
councils

Thunder "Anathema," friend, at you

Should all our churchmen foam in spite

At you, so careful of the right,

Yet one lay-hearth would give you

welcome

(Take it and come) to the Isle of Wight;

Where, far from noise and smoke of

town

I watch the twilight falling brown

All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down.

You'll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine,

And only hear the magpie gossip
Garrulous under a roof of pine:

For groves of pine on either hand,
To break the blast of winter, stand;

And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand;

Where, if below the milky steep
Some ship of battle slowly creep,
And on thro' zones of light and
shadow

Glimmer away to the lonely deep,

We might discuss the Northern sin
Which made a selfish war begin;

Dispute the claims, arrange the
chances;

Emperor, Ottoman, which shall win:
Or whether war's avenging rod
Shall lash all Europe into blood;

Till you should turn to dearer mat-
ters,

Dear to the man that is dear to God;

How best to help the slender store, How mend the dwellings, of the poor; How gain in life, as life advances, Valor and charity more and more. Come, Maurice, come: the lawn as yet Is hoar with rime, or spongy-wet;

But then the wreath of March has blossom'd,

Crocus, anemone, violet,

Or later, pay one visit here,
For those are few we hold as dear;

Nor pay but one, but come for many,
Many and many a happy year.
January, 1854.

Wearing the white flower of a blame. less life,

them dear,

Perchance as finding there

sciously

uncon

throne,

May all love, His love, unseen but felt, o'ershadow Thee,

The love of all Thy sons encompass Thee,

The love of all Thy daughters cherish Thee,

The love of all Thy people comfort Thee,

Till God's love set Thee at his side again!

ENID.

THE brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court,

A tributary prince of Devon, one
Of that great order of the Table
Round,

Had wedded Enid, Yniol's only child,
And loved her, as he loved the light of
Heaven.

And as the light of Heaven varies,

now

At sunrise, now at sunset, now by night With moon and trembling stars, so loved Geriant

To make her beauty vary day by day, In crimsons and in purples and in gems. And Enid, but to please her husband's eye,

Who first had found and loved her in a state

Of broken fortunes, daily fronted him In some fresh splendor; and the Queen herself,

Grateful to Prince Geraint for service done,

Loved her, and often with her own white hands.

Array'd and deck'd her, as the loveliest,

Next after her own self, in all the court.

And Enid loved the Queen, and with true heart

Adored her, as the stateliest and the best

And loveliest of all women upon earth.