And welcome her, welcome the land's

desire,

The sea-kings' daughter, as happy as

fair,

Blissful bride of a blissful heir,
Bride of the heir of the kings of the

sea

O joy to the people, and joy to the throne,

Come to us, love us, and make us your own,

For Saxon or Dane or Norman we, Teuton or Celt or whatever we be,

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head;

Nor thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead.

Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies: A great enchantress you may be: But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see.

of thee,

When thus he met his mother's view,

She had the passions of her kind,
She spake some certain truths of

you.

Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear: Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall: The guilt of blood is at your door: You changed a wholesome heart to gall.

You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth,

And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent

The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere, You pine among your halls and towers:

The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours.

CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldiers knew
Some one had blundered:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death'

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery-smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them,

Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade!
Noble six hundred!

Two children in two neighbor villages

[leas: Playing mad pranks along the healthy

bered years,

And doth the fruit of her dishonor reap.

And all the day heaven gathers back her tears

Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep,

And showering down the glory of lightsome day,

Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may.

Two lives bound fast in one with golden ease:

Two graves grass-green beside a gray church-tower

Washed with still rains and daisyblossomed;

Two children in one hamlet born and bred: [to hour. So runs the round of life from hour

ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot,
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The minster-bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,

And noise and humming;
They've hushed the minster-bell,
The organ 'gins to swell,-
She's coming,- coming!

My lady comes at last,

Timid and stepping fast,

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes downcast;

I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer,
With thoughts unruly.

May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturbed, fair saint, Pour out your praise or plaint Meekly and duly;

Round the forbidden place,

Lingering a minute,

Like outcast spirits who wait, And see, through heaven's gate, Angels within it.

The blush of dawn may yet restore Our light and hope and joy once

more

Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget That sunrise never failed us yet!

A MUSSEL-SHELL.

WHY art thou colored like the evening sky

Sorrowing for sunset? Lovely dost thou lie,

Bared by the washing of the eager At the snow's motionless and windbrine,

carved line.

Cold stretch the snows, cold throng the waves, the wind Stings sharp,- an icy fire, a touch unkind,

And sighs as if with passion of re The while I mark thy tints of violet. gret,

O beauty strange! O shape of perfect grace,

Whereon the lovely waves of color trace

The history of the years that passed thee by,

And touched thee with the pathos of the sky!

The sea shall crush thee; yea, the ponderous wave

Up the loose beach shall grind, and scoop thy grave, Thou thought of God!

What more

than thou am I? Both transient as the sad wind's passing sigh.