To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge, like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we

are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

LORD TENNYSON.

A LIGHT WOMAN

I

So far as our story approaches the end,
Which do you pity the most of us three? -
My friend, or the mistress of my friend
With her wanton eyes, or me?

II

My friend was already too good to lose,

And seemed in the way of improvement yet, When she crossed his path with her hunting-noose And over him drew her net.

III

When I saw him tangled in her toils,
A shame, said I, if she adds just him
To her nine-and-ninety other spoils,
The hundredth, for a whim!

IV

And before my friend be wholly hers,
How easy to prove to him, I said,
An eagle's the game her pride prefers,
Though she snaps at the wren instead!

V

So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, My hand sought hers as in earnest need, And round she turned for my noble sake, And gave me herself indeed.

VI

The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, The wren is he, with his maiden face. You look away and your lip is curled? Patience, a moment's space!

VII

For see, my friend goes shaking and white: He eyes me as the basilisk:

I have turned, it appears, his day to night, Eclipsing his sun's disk.

VIII

And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:

"Though I love her that he comprehends One should master one's passions (love, in chief) And be loyal to one's friends!"

And she,

IX

she lies in my hand as tame

As a pear late basking over a wall;

Just a touch to try and off it came;

'Tis mine,

can I let it fall?

X

With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!

Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst

When I gave its stalk a twist.

XI

And I, what I seem to my friend, you see:
What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:
What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?
No hero, I confess.

XII

'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,
And matter enough to save one's own:
Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals
He played with for bits of stone!

XIII

One likes to show the truth for the truth;
That the woman was light is very true:
But suppose she says, - Never mind that youth!
What wrong have I done to you?

XIV

Well, any how, here the story stays,
So far at least as I understand;

And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,

Here's a subject made to your hand!

ROBERT BROWNING.

SHOP

I

So, friend, your shop was all your house!
Its front, astonishing the street,
Invited view from man and mouse
To what diversity of treat
Behind its glass -the single sheet!

II

What gimcracks, genuine Japanese:
Gape-jaw and goggle-eye, the frog;
Dragons, owls, monkeys, beetles, geese;
Some crush-nosed human-hearted dog:
Queer names, too, such a catalogue!

III

I thought, "And he who owns the wealth
Which blocks the window's vastitude,