I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
Nor chirp of any bird;

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

I sat beneath the elm-tree,

I watch'd the long, long shade,
And as it grew still longer
I did not feel afraid;
For I listen'd for a foot-fall,
I listen'd for a word,—

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

He came not,--no, he came not;
The night came on alone;
The little stars sat one by one
Each on his golden throne;
The evening air pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,-

But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When some one stood behind;

A hand was on my shoulder,

I knew its touch was kind:

It drew me nearer, nearer;
We did not speak a word,―
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.

R. M. Milnes

CLXIII

TIMOTHY

‘Up, Timothy, up with your staff and away !
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay :
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds.'

Of coats and of jackets, grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons and caps white as
snow,

The girls on the hills make a holiday show.

Fresh sprigs of green box-wood, not six months before,

Fill'd the funeral basin at Timothy's door;

A coffin through Timothy's threshold had past ; One Child did it bear, and that Child was his last.

Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the hark! hark! away!
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.

Perhaps to himself at that moment he said;
'The key I must take, for my Ellen is dead.'
But of this, in my ears, not a word did he speak ;
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
W. Wordsworth

CLXIV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

I-THE MAGIC SLEEP

I

Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purple coverlet,

The maiden's jet-black hair has grown, On either side her tranced form

Forth streaming from a braid of pearl : The slumbrous light is rich and warm, And moves not on the rounded curl.

2

The silk star-broider'd coverlid

Unto her limbs itself doth mould, Languidly ever; and, amid

Her full black ringlets downward roll'd, Glows forth each softly shadow'd arm With bracelets of the diamond bright:

Her constant beauty doth inform

Stillness with love, and day with light.

3

She sleeps her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart.

The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd,
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps on either hand upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly press'd :
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.

II-THE FAIRY PRINCE'S ARRIVAL

I

A touch, a kiss! the charm was snapt,

There rose a noise of striking clocks,
And feet that ran and doors that clapt,
And barking dogs, and crowing cocks;
A fuller light illumin'd all,

A breeze through all the garden swept,
A sudden hubbub shook the hall,
And sixty feet the fountain leapt.

2

The hedge broke in, the banner blew,
The butler drank, the steward scrawl'd,
The fire shot up, the martin flew,

The parrot scream'd, the peacock squall'd,
The maid and page renew'd their strife,
The palace bang'd and buzz'd and clackt,
And all the long pent stream of life

Dash'd downward in a cataract.

3

And last with these the king awoke,
And in his chair himself uprear'd,
And yawn'd, and rubb'd his face, and spoke,
'By holy rood, a royal beard!

How say you? we have slept, my lords.

My beard has grown into my lap.' The barons swore, with many words, 'Twas but an after-dinner's nap.

4

'Pardy,' return'd the king, 'but still
My joints are something stiff or so.
My Lord, and shall we pass the bill
I mention'd half an hour ago?'
The chancellor sedate and vain

In courteous words return'd reply :
But dallied with his golden chain,
And, smiling, put the question by.

A. Tennyson

CLXV

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!

To the meadows trip away.

Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay:

For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go

With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

S. T. Coleridge