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 Or else we loved the man, and prized his work; I know not but we sitting, as I said, 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, To me, methought, who waited with a crowd, Of stateliest port; and all the people cried, 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; The greater to the lesser, long desired 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, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, ""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." And Juliet answer'd laughing, "Go and see The Gardener's daughter: trust me, after that, |