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النشر الإلكتروني

THE BUILDERS.

ALL are architects of Fate,

Working in these walls of Time;
Some with massive deeds and great,
Some with ornaments of rhyme.
Nothing useless is or low,

Each thing in its place is best;
And what seems but idle show
Strengthens and supports the rest.
For the structure that we raise,
Time is with materials fill'd;

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;
Make the house, where gods may dwell,
Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,
Standing in these walls of Time ;
Broken stairways, where the feet
Stumble as they seek to climb.
Build to-day, then, strong and sure,
With a firm and ample base,
And ascending and secure

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,
And on its outer point, some miles away,
The lighthouse lifts its massive masonry,

A pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day.
Even at this distance I can see the tides

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,
Wading far out among the rocks and sands,
The night-o'ertaken mariner to save.

And the great ships sail outward and return,
Bending and bowing o'er the billowy swells,
And ever joyful, as they see it burn,

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,
Shines on that inextinguishable light!
It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp

The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.
The startled waves leap over it; the storm
Smites it with all the scourges of the rain,
And steadily against its solid form

Press the great shoulders of the hurricane.
The sea-bird wheeling round it, with the din
Of wings and winds and solitary cries,
Blinded and maddened by the light within,
Dashes himself against the glare, and dies.
A new Prometheus, chained upon the rock,

Still grasping in his hand the fire of Jove,
It does not hear the cry, nor heed the shock,
But hails the mariner with words of love.

"Sail on!" it says, "sail on, ye stately ships!
And with your floating bridge the ocean span;
Be mine to guard this light from all eclipse,
Be yours to bring man nearer unto man!"

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,
Dwelling amid these yellowy bowers,
To himself he talks ;

For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks :

Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks

Of the mouldering flowers.

Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,

Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose

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;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

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 :
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.

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Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed all at once in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunged in the battery smoke,
Fiercely the line they broke;
Strong was the sabre stroke:
Making an army reel

Shaken 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,
They that had struck so well
Rode through the jaws of death,
Half a league back again,
Up from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them-
Left of Six Hundred.

Honour the brave and bold !
Long shall the tale be told,
Yea, when our babes are old-
How they rode onward.

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;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

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