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

Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind;
A hand was on my shoulder,-

I knew its touch was kind;
It drew me nearer, nearer;

We did not speak one word,For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard.

THE TREASURE SHIP.

My heart is freighted full of love,
As full as any argosy,

With gems below and gems above,-
And ready for the open sea,

For the wind is blowing summerly:

Full strings of Nature's beaded pearl,
Sweet tears, composed in amorous ties
And turkis-lockets, that no churl
Hath fashion'd out mechanic-wise,
But all made up of thy blue eyes;

And girdles wove of subtle sound,
And thoughts not trusted to the air,
Of antique mould, the same as bound

In Paradise the primal pair

Before Love's arts and niceness were;

And carcanets of living sighs,

Gums that have dropp'd from Love's own stem;

And one small jewel most I prize,

The darling gaud of all of them:

I wot, so rare and fine a gem
Ne'er glow'd on Eastern anadem.

I've cased the rubies of thy smiles
In rich and triply-plated gold;
But this no other wealth defiles:
Itself-itself can only hold-

The stealthy kiss on Maple-Wold.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 1811-1863.

AT THE CHURCH GATE.

Although I enter not,

Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;

And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout

And noise and humming;

They've hush'd the Minster bell;

The organ 'gins to swell:

She's coming! she's coming!

My Lady comes at last,

Timid and stepping fast

And hastening hither,

With modest eyes down-cast:
She comes-she's here-she's pass'd.
May heaven go with her!

Kneel undisturb'd, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint

Meekly and duly!

I will not enter there

To sully your pure prayer

With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute!

Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it.

THE AGE OF WISDOM.

Ho, pretty Page with the dimpled chin

That never has known the barber's shear!

All your wish is woman to win :
This is the way that boys begin :

Wait till you come to Forty Year!

Curly gold locks cover foolish brains;
Billing and cooing is all your cheer,
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains
Under Bonnybell's window panes :
Wait till you come to Forty Year!

Forty times over let Michaelmas pass,
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear:
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to Forty Year.

Pledge me round! I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are grey!
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
Ever a month was pass'd away?

The reddest lips that ever were kiss'd,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper, and we not list,
Or look away; and never be miss'd

Ere yet ever a month is gone.

Gillian's dead: God rest her bier!
How I loved her twenty years syne!
Marian's married: but I sit here,
Alone and merry at Forty Year,

Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.

SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. 1810-1883.

THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS.

Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff'd, and swore,-
A drunken Private of the Buffs,
Who never look'd before :
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,

And type of all her race.

Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught, Bewilder'd, and alone,

A heart with English instinct fraught

He yet can call his own.

Ay! tear his body limb from limb!
Bring cord, or axe, or flame!

He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem'd
Like dreams to come and go;

Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow;

The smoke above his father's door
In grey soft eddyings hung,—
Must he then watch it rise no more,

Doom'd by himself, so young?

Yes! honour calls: with strength like steel

He put the vision by.

Let dusky Indians whine and kneel!
An English lad must die.

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.

Vain mightiest fleets of iron framed,
Vain those all-shattering guns,
Unless proud England keep untamed
The strong heart of her sons!
So let his name through Europe ring!
A man of mean estate

Who died as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.

ALFRED DOMETT.

1811

WHAT MATTER?

I

What matter, what matter, O friend! though the sea
In lines of silvery fire may slide

O'er the sands so tawny and tender and wide,
Murmuring soft as a bee ?—

No matter! no matter! in sooth, said he :
But the sunlit sands and the silvery play
Are a truthful smile long pass'd away :

No more to me.

II

What matter, what matter, dear friend! can it be
If a long blue stripe, dim-swelling and dark
Beneath the lighter blue headland, may mark
All of the town we can see?