and brings her within our view even while it sets her beyond our reach."

ROME.

When we have once known Rome, and left her where she lies, like a long decaying corpse, retaining a trace of the noble shape it was, but with accumulated dust and a fungous growth overspreading all its more admirable features-left her in utter weariness, no doubt, of her narrow, crooked, intricate streets, so uncomfortably paved with little squares of lava that to tread over them is a penitential pilgrimage, so indescribably ugly, moreover, so cold, so alley-like, into which the sun never falls, and where a chill wind forces its deadly breath into our lungs-left her, tired of the sight of those immense seven-storied, yellowwashed hovels, or call them palaces, where all that is dreary in domestic life seems magnified and multiplied, and weary of climbing those staircases, which ascend from a ground-floor of cook-shops, cobblers' stalls, stables, and regiments of cavalry, to a middle region of princes, cardinals, and ambassadors, and an upper tier of artists, just beneath the unattainable sky-left her, worn out with shivering at the cheerless and smoky fireside by day, and feasting with our own substance the ravenous little populace of a Roman bed at night-left her, sick at heart of Italian trickery, which has uprooted whatever faith in man's integrity

had endured till now, and sick at stomach of sour bread, sour wine, rancid butter, and bad cookery needlessly bestowed on evil meats-left her, disgustea with the pretence of holiness and the reality of nastiness, each equally omnipresent-left her, half lifeless from the languid atmosphere, the vital principle of which has been used up long ago, or corrupted by myriads of slaughters-left her, crushed down in spirit with the desolation of her ruin, and the hopelessness of her future-left her, in short, hating her with all our might, and adding our individual curse to the infinite anathema which her old crimes have unmistakably brought down, when we have left Rome in such mood as this, we are astonished by the discovery, by-and-by, that our heartstrings have mysteriously attached themselves to the Eternal City, and are drawing us thitherward again, as if it were more familiar, more intimately our home, than even the spot where we were born.

SONGS AND LYRICS FROM TENNYSON'S

"PRINCESS."

[The lyric which the poet has introduced after each section of "The Princess," is a sort of chorus, designed to guide and interpret the sympathies of the reader, during the progress of the poem. They nearly all have reference to children and the maternal affection, and their special purpose seems to be to keep prominently before the mind of the reader, the central idea of the poem, namely, that however much woman may gain in "mental breadth," she must not "fail in childward care, nor lose the childlike in the larger mind." These lyrics did not appear in the first edition of "The Princess." Their introduction appears to have been an after-thought with the poet.-EDITOR.]

RECONCILIATION OVER A CHILD'S GRAVE.

S thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,

We fell out, my wife and I,

O we fell out I know not why,

And kiss'd again with tears.

For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,

There above the little grave,

O there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.

CRADLE SONG.

Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea !

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

BUGLE SONG.

The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,

And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

"

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow for ever and for ever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.