THE BUILDERS. ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Each thing in its place is best; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between ; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part ; For the gods are everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Else our lives are incomplete, Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain, And one boundless reach of sky. THE LIGHTHOUSE. THE rocky ledge runs far into the sea, A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day. Upheaving, break unheard along its base, A speechless wrath, that rises and subsides In the white lip and tremour of the face And as the evening darkens, lo! how bright, Through the deep purple of the twilight air, Beams forth the sudden radiance of its light, With strange, unearthly splendour in its glare. Not one alone; from each projecting cape And perilous reef along the ocean's verge, Starts into life a dim, gigantic shape, Holding its lantern o'er the restless surge. Like the great giant Christopher it stands Upon the brink of the tempestuous wave, And the great ships sail outward and return, They wave their silent welcomes and farewells. They come forth from the darkness, and their sails Gleam for a moment only in the blaze, And eager faces, as the light unveils, Gaze at the tower, and vanish while they gaze. The mariner remembers when a child, On his first voyage, he saw it fade and sink ; And when, returning from adventures wild, He saw it rise again o'er ocean's brink. Steadfast, serene, immoveable, the same Year after year, through all the silent night Burns on for evermore that quenchless flame, The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace; Press the great shoulders of the hurricane. Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove, "Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships! TENNYSON. "His mind is His TENNYSON is a living poet, and at present poet-laureate. exquisitely poetical; his diction is often felicitous in the extreme." susceptibility of refined emotions is delicate and profound. He belongs to the lyrical and didactic class of poets. THE AUTUMN FLOWER-GARDEN. A SPIRIT haunts the year's last hours, For at eventide, listening earnestly, Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. The air is damp, and hushed, and close An hour before death; My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves, At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of the box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i̇' the earth so chilly; THE 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. "Charge!" was the captain's cry, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs not to make reply, Theirs but to do and die : Rode the Six Hundred. Cannon to right 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, All the world wondered: Plunged in the battery smoke, Shaken and sundered. Then they rode back, but not- Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered; Honour the brave and bold ! THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. I. FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing : Toll ye the church bells sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; |