LORD TENNYSON

Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and

praying hands.

But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho* the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil ; Till they perish and they suffer some, 'tis whisper'd down

in hell

Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar ; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

��703. St. Agues' Eve

,EEP on the convent-roof the snows

Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes:

May my soul follow soon ! The shadows of the convent-towers

Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours

That lead me to my Lord : Make Thou my spirit pure and clear

As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year

That in my bosom lies.

��As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground;

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