All night the silence seems to flow
Beside me in my utter woe,

Oriana.
A weary, weary way I go,

Oriana.

When Norland winds pipe down the sea,

Oriana,
I walk, I dare not think of thee,

Oriana.
Thou liest beneath the greenwood tree,
I dare not die and come to thee,

Oriana.
I hear the roaring of the sea,
Oriana.

Alfred Tennyson.

BARTHRAM'S DIRGE

THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig,

Beside the Headless Cross,
And they left him lying in his blood,

Upon the moor and moss.

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They made a bier of the broken bough,

The sauch and the aspin gray,
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,

And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower,

And threw her robes aside;

She tore her ling (long) yellow hair,

And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bathed him in the Lady-Well

His wounds so deep and sair,
And she plaited a garland for his breast,

And a garland for his hair.

They rowed him in a lily sheet,

And bare him to his earth, And the Gray Friars sung the dead man's mass

As they passed the Chapel Garth.

They buried him at the mirk midnight,

When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspin gray forgot to play,

And the mist clung to the hill.

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,

By the edge of the Nine-Stone Burn, And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower

The moss and the Lady fern.

A Gray Friar stayed upon the grave,

And sang till the morning tide,
And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul,
While Headless Cross shall bide.

Surtees.

THE YOUNG MAY MOON

The young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love;

How sweet to rove

Through Morna's grove When the drowsy world is dreaming, love! Then awake! the heavens look bright, my dear ; 'T is never too late for delight, my dear;

And the best of all ways

To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear.

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Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,

And I, whose star,

More glorious far,
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake! - till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear,

Or, in watching the flight

Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear.

Thomas Moore.

ON A FAVORITE CAT, DROWNED IN A TUB

OF GOLDFISHES 1

’T was on a lofty vase's side
Where China's gayest art had dyed
The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

Her conscious tail her joy declared :
The fair, round face, the snowy beard,
The velvet of her paws,
Her coat that with the tortoise vies,
Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,
She saw, and purred applause.

Still had she gazed, but ’midst the tide
Two angel forms were seen to glide,
The Genii of the stream :
Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue,
Through richest purple, to the view
Betrayed a golden gleam.

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw .
A whisker first, and then a claw,
With many an ardent wish,
She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize, -
What female heart can gold despise ?
What cat 's averse to fish ?

Presumptuous maid! with looks intent,
Again she stretched, again she bent,
Nor knew the gulf between,
Malignant Fate sat by and smiled,
The slippery verge her feet beguiled ;
She tumbled headlong in!

Eight times emerging from the flood,
She mewed to every watery god
Some speedy aid to send :
No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred,
Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard, —
A favorite has no friend !

From hence, ye Beauties ! undeceived,
Know one false step is ne'er retrieved,
And be with caution bold :
Not all that tempts your wandering eyes
And heedless hearts is lawful prize,
Nor all that glisters gold !

Thomas Gray.

COUNTY GUY

A., County Guy ! the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.
The lark, his lay who trilled all day,

Sits hushed his partner nigh ;
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,

But where is County Guy?