With swar hy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere

Revolving many memories, till the hull Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,

And on the mere the wailing died away

Here ended Hall, and our last light, that long

Had wink'd and threaten'd darkness, flared and fell:

At which the Parson, sent to sleep with sound,

And waked with silence, grunted "Good!" but we

Sat rapt it was the tone with which he read

Perhaps some modern touches here and there

Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness

Or else we loved the man, and prized his work;

I know not: but we sitting, as I said, The cock crew loud; as at that time

of year

The lusty bird takes every hour for dawn:

Then Francis, muttering, like a man ill-used,

"There now-that's nothing!" drew a little back,

And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log,

That sent a blast of sparkles up the flue:

And so to bed; where yet in sleep I seem'd

To sail with Arthur under looming shores,

Point after point; till on to dawn, when dreams

Begin to feel the truth and stir of day, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd,

There came a bark that, blowing forward, bore

King Arthur, like a modern gentleman Of stateliest port; and all the people cried,

"Arthur is come again: he cannot

die.

Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found

Empire for life? but Eustace painted her.

And said to me, she sitting with us then,

"When will you paint like this?" and I replied,

(My words were half in earnest, half in jest.)

Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived,

A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes

Darker than darkest pansies, and that

The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that,

You searce can fail to match his masterpiece."

And up we rose, and on the spur we

went.

Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite

Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love.

News from the humming city comes to it

In sound of funeral or of marriage bells;

And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear

The windy clanging of the minster clock;

Although between it and the garden lies

A league of grass, wash'd by a slow broad stream,

That, stirr'd with languid pulses of the

oar,

Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on,
Barge-laden, to three arches of a bridge
Crown'd with the minster-towers.
The fields between
Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-ud-
der'd kine,

And all about the large lime feathers low,

The lime a summer home of murmur

ous wings.

In that still place she, hoarded in herself,

Grew, seldom seen: not less among us lived

Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard

Of Rose, the Gardener's daughter? Where was lie,

So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief,

That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth,

So gross to express delight, in praise of her

Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world.

And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and im

ages,

Yet this is also true, that, long before I look'd upon her, when I heard her

to me,

"Iear how the bushes echo! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts.

Think you they sing

Like poets, from the vanity of song? Or have they any sense of why they sing?

And would they praise the heavens for what they have?"

And I made answer. "Were there nothing else

For which to praise the heavens but only love,

That only love were cause enough for praise,"

Lightly he laugh'd, as one that read my thought,

And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd,

We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North;

Down which a well-worn pathway

courted us

And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew

Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst

A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade.

The garden-glasses shone, and momently

The twinkling laurel scatter'd silver lights.

"Eustace," I said, "this wonder keeps the house."

He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried,Look! look!" Before he ceased I turn'd,

And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there.

For up the porch there grew an Eastern

rose,

That, flowering high, the last night's gale had caught,

And blown across the walk. One arm aloft

Gown'd in pure white, that fitted to the shape

Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood.

A single stream of all her soft brown hair

Pour'd on one side: the shadow of the flowers

Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering

Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist

Ah, happy shade -and still went wavering down,

But, ere it touch'd a foot, that might have danced

The greensward into greener circles, dipt,

And mix'd with shadows of the common ground!

But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunn'd

Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips,

And on the bounteous wave of such a breast

As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade,

She stood, a sight to make an old man young.

So rapt, we near'd the house; but she, a Rose

In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turn'd

Into the world without; till close at hand,

And almost ere I knew mine own intent.

This murmur broke the stillness of that air

Which brooded round about her: "Ah. one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers cull'd,

"Now," said he, "will you climb the top of Art.

You cannot fail but work in hues to dim

The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,-the Master, Love,

A more ideal Artist he than all."

So home I went, but could not sleep for joy,

Reading her perfect features in the gloom,

Kissing the rose she gave me o'er and o'er,

And shaping faithful record of the glance

That graced the giving-such a noise of life

Swarm'd in the golden present, such a voice

Call'd to me from the years to come,

Requiring, tho' I knew it was mine own Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A woman's heart, the heart of her Í loved:

And in that time and place she answer'd me,

And in the compass of three little words,

More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering, "I ani thine."

Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say

That my desire, like all strongest hopes,

By its own energy-fulfill'd itself, Merged in completion? Would you learn at full

How passion rose thro' circumstantial grades

Beyond all grades develop'd? and indeed

I had not stayed so long to tell you all, But while I used came Memory with sad eyes,

Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I mused, Love with knit brows went by,

And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, "Be wise: not easily forgiven

Are those, who, setting wide the doors that bar

The secret bridal chambers of the heart,

Let in the day." Here, then, my words have end.

Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells

Of that which came between, more sweet than each,

In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves

That tremble round a nightingale-in sighs

Which perfect Joy, perplex'd for utter

ance,

Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell

Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given,

And vows, where there was never need of vows,

And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap

Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above

The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale

Sow'd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars;

Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit,

Spread the light haze along the rivershores,

And in the hollows; or as once wemet Unheedful, tho' beneath a whispering rain

WITH farmer Allan at the farm abode William and Dora. William was his son,

And she his niece. He often look'd at them,

And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife.'

Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all, And yearn'd towards William; but the youth, because

He had been always with her in the house,

Thought not of Dora.

Then there came a day When Allan call'd his son, and said, "My son:

I married late, but I would wish to see My grandchild on my knees before I

die:

And I have set my heart upon a match. Now therefore look to Dora: she is well

To look to thrifty too beyond her

His niece and said: "My girl, I love you well;

But if you speak with him that was my son,

Or change a word with her he calls his wife,

My home is none of yours. My will is law."

And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,

"It cannot be my uncle's mind will change!"

And days went on, and there was born a boy

To William; then distresses came on him

And day by day he pass'd his father's gate,

Heart-broken, and his father help'd him not.

But Dora stored what little she could save,

And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know

Who sent it; till at last a fever seized On William, and in harvest time he died.

Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat And look'd with tears upon her boy, and thought

Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:

"I have obey'd my uncle until now, And I have sinn'd, for it was all thro'

me

This evil came on William at the first.

But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,

And for your sake, the woman that he chose,

And for this orphan, I am come to

you: