What a day it was, that day!

Hills and vales did openly Seem to heave and throb away, At the sight of the great sky; And the silence, as it stood In the glory's golden flood, Audibly did bud—and bud!

Through the winding hedgerows green,
How we wandered, I and you,-
With the bowery tops shut in,

And the gates that showed the view-
How we taiked there! thrushes soft
Sang our pauses out, or oft
Bleatings took them, from the croft.

Till the pleasure, grown too strong,

Left me muter evermore; And, the winding road being long, I walked out of sight, before;

And so, wrapt in musings fond, Issued (past the wayside pond) On the meadow-lands beyond.

I sat down beneath the beech
Which leans over to the lane,
And the far sound of your speech
Did not promise any pain;
And I blessed you, full and free,.
With a smile stooped tenderly
O'er the May-flowers on my knee.

But the sound grew into word

As the speakers drew more nearSweet, forgive me that I heard What you wished me not to hear. Do not weep so— -do not shakeOh, I heard thee, Bertha, make Good true answers for my sake.

Yes, and he too! let him stand

In thy thoughts, untouched by blame Could he help it, if my hand

He had claimed with hasty claim! That was wrong perhaps—but then Such things be-—and will, again! Women cannot judge for men.

Had he seen thee, when he sworo
He would love but me alone?
Thou wert absent-sent before
To our kin in Sidmouth town.
When he saw thee, who art best
Past compare, and loveliest,
He but judged thee as the rest.

Could we blame him with grave words,
Thou and I, dear, if we might?
Thy brown eyes have looks like birds
Flying straightway to the light;
Mine are older.-Hush!-look out-
Up the street! Is none without?
How the poplar swings about!

And that hour-beneath the beech-
When I listened in a dream,
And he said, in his deep speech,

That he owed me all esteem-
Each word swam in on my brain
With a dim, dilating pain,

Till it burst with that last strain—

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. COME, dear children, let us away! Down and away below.

Now my brothers call from the bay;
Now the great winds shorewards blow;
Now the salt tides seaward flow;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chaff and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away;

This way, this way.

Call her once before you go.
Call once yet,

In a voice that she will know :
"Margaret! Margaret!"
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear;
Children's voices wild with pain.

Surely, she will come again.
Call her once, and come away;
This way,
this way.

"Mother dear, we cannot stay,"
The wild white horses foam and fret,
Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down.
Call no more.

One last look at the white-walled town,
And the little gray church on the windy shore
Then come down.

She will not come, though you call all day.
Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell
The far-off sound of a silver bell?
Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep;

Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;
Where the salt weed sways in the stream;
Where the sea-beasts ranged all around
Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail, and bask in the brine;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world forever and aye?

When did music come this way?
Children dear, was it yesterday?

When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.

We will gaze from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side-
And then come back, down.
"There dwells a loved one,
Singing,
But cruel is she;

She left lonely forever

The kings of the sea."

EXCUSE.

MATTHEW Arnold.

Yet I know

I TOO have suffered.
She is not cold, though she seems so;
She is not cold, she is not light;
But our ignoble souls lack might.

She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh,
While we for hopeless passion die;
Yet she could love, those eyes declare,
Were but men nobler than they are.

Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men; But light the serious visage grew—

She looked, and smiled, and saw them through.

Our petty souls, our strutting wits,
Our labored puny passion-fits-
Ah, may she scorn them still, till we
Scorn them as bitterly as she!

Yet oh, that Fate would let her see
One of some worthier race than we-
One for whose sake she once might prove
How deeply she who scorns can love.

His eyes be like the starry lights-
His voice like sounds of summer nights-
In all his lovely mien let pierce
The magic of the universe!

And she to him will reach her hand,
And gazing in his eyes will stand,
And know her friend, and weep for glee,
And cry-Long, long I've looked for thee!

Then will she weep-with smiles, till then Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

INDIFFERENCE.

I MUST not say that thou wert true, Yet let me say that thou wert fair; And they that lovely face who view, They will not ask if truth be there.

Truth-what is truth? Two bleeding hearts Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side.

The world to them was stern and drear; Their lot was but to weep and moan. Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, For neither could subsist alone!

But souls whom some benignant breath Has charmed at birth from gloom and care, These ask no love-these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are.

The world to them may homage make, And garlands for their forehead weave; And what the world can give, they takeBut they bring more than they receive.

They smile upon the world; their ears
To one demand alone are coy.

They will not give us love and tears-
They bring us light, and warmth, and joy.

It was not love that heaved thy breast,
Fair child! it was the bliss within.
Adieu! and say that one, at least,
Was just to what he did not win.

SONG.

My silks and fine array,

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

My smiles and languished air, By love are driven away,

And mournful lean despair Brings me yew to deck my grave; Such end true lovers havo.