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Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest,

Till, not to die a listener, I arose,

And with me Philip, talking still; and so
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun,

And following our own shadows thrice as long As when they follow'd us from Philip's door, Arrived, and found the sun of sweet content Re-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well.

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.

Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone,
All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps,
Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire,
But unfamiliar Arno, and the dome
Of Brunelleschi ; sleeps in peace: and he,
Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of words

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb :

I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks

By the long wash of Australasian seas
Far off, and holds her head to other stars,
And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone.'

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a style
In the long hedge, and rolling in his mind
Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook
A tonsured head in middle age forlorn,

Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breath

Of tender air made tremble in the hedge

The fragil bindweed-bells and briony rings; And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near, Waiting to pass.

In much amaze he stared On bashful

azure, and on hair In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell

eyes a

Divides threefold to show the fruit within :

Then, wondering, ask'd her 'Are you from the

farm ??

'Yes' answer'd she. “Pray stay a little: pardon

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• Indeed!' and here he look'd so self-perplext,
That Katie laugh’d, and laughing blush'd, till he
Laugh'd also, but as one before he wakes,
Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream.

Then looking at her; “Too happy, fresh and fair, Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, To be the ghost of one who bore your name About these meadows, twenty years ago.'

· Have

you

not heard ?' said Katie, we came

back.

We bought the farm we tenanted before.
Am I so like her so they said on board.
Sir, if you knew her in her English days,
My mother, as it seems you did, the days
That most she loves to talk of, come with me.
My brother James is in the harvest-field :

But she-you will be welcome—0, come in!'

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