When youthful spring around us breathes,
Thy spirit warms her fragrant sigh;
And every flower the summer wreathes
Is born beneath that kindling eye:
Where'er we turn thy glories shine,
And all things fair and bright are thine.

ST. AGNES.

BY TENNYSON.

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows
Are sparkling to the moon;
My breath to heaven like vapour goes,
May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent-towers
Slant down the snowy sward,

Still creeping with the creeping hours
That lead me to my Lord;

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
As are the frosty skies,

Or this first snowdrop of the year
That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soiled and dark
To yonder shining ground,

As this pale taper's earthly spark

To yonder argent round;

So shows my soul before the Lamb,

My spirit before Thee;

So in mine earthly house I am

To that I hope to be.

Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far
Through all yon starlight keen
Draw me Thy bride, a glittering star,
In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors,
The flashes come and go;
All heaven bursts her starry floors
And strews her lights below,
And deepens on and up! The gates
Roll back, and far within

For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
To make me pure of sin.
The Sabbaths of eternity,

One Sabbath deep and wide-
A light upon the shining sea-
The Bridegroom with his bride.

THE RIVULET.

BY TENNYSON.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles;
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set

With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling;

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me, as I travel,

With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,—

And draw them all along, and flow
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers;
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;

I loiter round my cresses ;

And out again I curve and flow,
To join the brimming river;
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

A FAREWELL.

BY TENNYSON.

FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver;

No more to thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,
A rivulet then a river:

No where by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

But here will sigh thine alder tree,
And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,
For ever and for ever.

A thousand suns will stream on thee,
A thousand moons will quiver,
But not by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.

THE BIRTH OF CHRIST.

BY TENNYSON.

THE time draws near the birth of Christ : The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.

Four voices of four hamlets round,

From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell out and fail, as if a door

Were shut between me and the sound.

Each voice four changes on the wind,
That now dilate and now decrease,
Peace and goodwill, goodwill and peace,
Peace and goodwill, to all mankind.

Rise, happy morn! rise, holy morn!
Draw forth the cheerful day from night:
O Father! touch the east, and light
The light that shone where hope was born.

LAZARUS AND MARY.

BY TENNYSON.

HER eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But, he was dead, and there he sits,
And He that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face
And rests upon the Life indeed.