To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn, 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 readPerhaps some modern touches here and there Redeem'd it from the charge of nothingness- 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, that's nothing!" drew a little back, "There now And drove his heel into the smoulder'd log, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, Then those that stood upon the hills behind And, further inland, voices echoed "Come With all good things, and war shall be no more." At this a hundred bells began to peal, That with the sound I woke, and heard indeed The clear church-bells ring in the Christmas morn. THE GARDENER'S DAUGHTER; OR, THE PICTURES. THIS morning is the morning of the day, My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summ'd up and closed in little ;- Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spirit — oh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not 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 More black than ashbuds in the front of March." |