XCVII. ENOCH ARDEN AT THE WINDOW.

Alfred Tennyson, 1809-1892, was born in Somerby, Lincolnshire, England; his father was a clergyman noted for his energy and physical stature. Alfred, with his two older brothers, graduated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first volume of poems appeared in 1830; it made little impression, and was severely treated by the critics. On the publication of his third series, in 1842, his poetic genius began to receive general recognition. On the death of Wordsworth he was made poet laureate, and he was then regarded as the foremost living poet of England. "In Memoriam," written in memory of his friend Arthur Hallam, appeared in 1850; the "Idyls of the King," in 1858; and "Enoch Arden," a touching story in verse, from which the following selection is taken, was published in 1864. In 1883 he accepted a peerage as Baron Tennyson of Aldworth, Sussex, and of Freshwater, Isle of Wight.

BUT Enoch yearned to see her face again;
"If I might look on her sweet face again.
And know that she is happy." So the thought
Haunted and harassed him, and drove him forth,
At evening when the dull November day
Was growing duller twilight, to the hill.
There he sat down gazing on all below;
There did a thousand memories roll upon him,
Unspeakable for sadness. By and by
The ruddy square of comfortable light,
Far-blazing from the rear of Philip's house,
Allured him, as the beacon blaze allures
The bird of passage, till he madly strikes.
Against it, and beats out his weary life.

For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
The latest house to landward; but behind,
With one small gate that opened on the waste,
Flourished a little garden, square and walled:
And in it throve an ancient evergreen,
A yew tree, and all round it ran a walk

Of shingle, and a walk divided it:

But Enoch shunned the middle walk, and stole

Up by the wall, behind the yew; and thence
That which he better might have shunned, if griefs
Like his have worse or better, Enoch saw.

For cups and silver on the burnished board
Sparkled and shone; so genial was the hearth:
And on the right hand of the hearth he saw
Philip, the slighted suitor of old times,
Stout, rosy, with his babe across his knees;
And o'er her second father stooped a girl,
A later but a loftier Annie Lee,

Fair-haired and tall, and from her lifted hand
Dangled a length of ribbon and a ring

To tempt the babe, who reared his creasy arms,
Caught at and ever missed it, and they laughed:
And on the left hand of the hearth he saw
The mother glancing often toward her babe,
But turning now and then to speak with him,
Her son, who stood beside her tall and strong,
And saying that which pleased him, for he smiled.

Now when the dead man come to life beheld His wife, his wife no more, and saw the babe, Hers, yet not his, upon the father's knee, And all the warmth, the peace, the happiness. And his own children tall and beautiful, And him, that other, reigning in his place, Lord of his rights and of his children's love, Then he, tho' Miriam Lane had told him all, Because things seen are mightier than things heard, Staggered and shook, holding the branch, and feared To send abroad a shrill and terrible cry,

Which in one moment, like the blast of doom,

Would shatter all the happiness of the hearth.

He, therefore, turning softly like a thief,
Lest the harsh shingle should grate underfoot,
And feeling all along the garden wall,

Lest he should swoon and tumble and be found,
Crept to the gate, and opened it, and closed,

As lightly as a sick man's chamber door,
Behind him, and came out upon the waste.

And there he would have knelt but that his knees
Were feeble, so that falling prone he dug

His fingers into the wet earth, and prayed.

"Too hard to bear! why did they take me thence? O God Almighty, blessed Savior, Thou That did'st uphold me on my lonely isle, Uphold me, Father, in my loneliness A little longer! aid me, give me strength Not to tell her, never to let her know. Help me not to break in upon her peace. My children too! must I not speak to these? They know me not. I should betray myself. Never! no father's kiss for me! the girl So like her mother, and the boy, my son!"

There speech and thought and nature failed a little, And he lay tranced; but when he rose and paced Back toward his solitary home again,

All down the long and narrow street he went

Beating it in upon his weary brain,

As tho' it were the burden of a song,

"Not to tell her, never to let her know."

NOTE.-Enoch Arden had been wrecked on an uninhabited island, and was supposed to be dead. After many years he was rescued, and returned home, where he found his wife happily married a second time. For her happiness, he kept his existence a secret, but soon died of a broken heart.

XCVIII. LOCHINVAR.

Он, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none,
He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone!

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske River where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar!

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword-
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word-
"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"

"I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,
"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bridemaidens whispered, ""Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near,
So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

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She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur: They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

-Walter Scott.

NOTES.-The above selection is a song taken from Scott's poem of "Marmion." It is in a slight degree founded on a ballad called 66 Katharine Janfarie," to be found in the "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border."

The Solway Frith, on the southwest coast of Scotland, is remarkable for its high spring tides.

Bonnet is the ordinary name in Scotland for a man's cap.