Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right;
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old;
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

-Alfred Tennyson

BUGLE SONG

HE splendor falls on castle walls

THE

And snowy summits old in story;

The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying!

Blow, bugle! Answer, echoes! dying, dying, dying.

O hark! O hear, how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying.
Blow, bugle! Answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky!

They faint on hill, or field, or river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying!
And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

-Alfred Tennyson

SIR GALAHAD

(According to some legends of the Middle Ages, the Holy Grail was the cup from which Christ drank at the Last Supper. The Grail was brought to England and carefully preserved for many generations. If approached by any but a pure and holy person, it would be borne away by angels. Its keepers having become impure, the Grail vanished. Many of King Arthur's knights undertook the selfappointed task of seeking the Grail. But to three only-Sir Galahad and two others-was given the happiness of seeing the Grail.)

Y GOOD blade carves the casques of men,

MY

My tough lance thrusteth sure,

My strength is as the strength of ten,

Because my heart is pure.

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel.
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel;

They reel, they roll in clanging lists,

And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,

That lightly rain from ladies' hands.

How sweet are looks that ladies bend

On whom their favors fall!

For them I battle till the end,

To save from shame and thrall;°

But all my heart is drawn above,

My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine; I never felt the kiss of love,

Nor maiden's hand in mine.

More bounteous aspects on me beam,

Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will.

When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns.

Then by some secret shrine I ride;

O

I hear a voice, but none are there; The stalls are void, the doors are wide, The tapers burning fair.

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,

The silver vessels sparkle clean,

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chants resound between.

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres°
I find a magic bark.

I leap on board; no helmsman steers;
I float till all is dark.

A gentle sound, an awful light!

Three angels bear the Holy Grail; With folded feet, in stoles of white, On sleeping wings they sail.

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And starlike mingles with the stars.

When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,

The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,1
The streets are dumb with snow.

The tempest crackles on the leads,°

And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

A maiden knight-to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.

I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,

Whose odors haunt my dreams;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armor that I wear,

This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.

The clouds are broken in the sky,

And thro' the mountain-walls

A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up and shakes and falls.

Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
"O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near."
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;°
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,°
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,

Until I find the Holy Grail.

-Alfred Tennyson

Words: casques-helmets; shattering noisy; brands-swords; lists-tournaments; thrall-bondage; transports-joys; crescentmoon; stems-trunks of trees; stalls-pews; void-empty; meres— lakes; stoles-garments; leads-roofs covered with leaden plates; fens-marshes; maiden-pure; copses-hedges of small trees; hostel --a place of lodging, inn; hall-residence; grange-an outlying building, granary; pale-fence, boundary.

Note: "The cock crows ere the Christmas morn"-According to an old superstition the cock crows all through the night before Christmas to drive away evil spirits.

A

ALFRED TENNYSON

S Longfellow was in America, so was Tennyson in Great Britain, the most popular of poets during his life time. Nor was the popularity of either confined to the favor of his own countrymen. Each was widely read and much loved in all English speaking lands; the differences between their works being so marked they were never looked upon as rivals but as brother poets of the race.

Alfred Tennyson was born in 1809 at Somersby, a little village in eastern England near the sea. His father was the parish rector, a well-trained man fond of music, painting, and poetry. His mother was a charming woman, loved by all who knew her. Gentle and sweet-spirited, she was a great help to her husband in his ministerial duties, and was besides a most devoted mother. From her Alfred inherited his lofty imagination, his calm soul, and his sincere reverence.

Tennyson's early days were those of happy, careless child