nding himself in some very beautiful
place, and remembering this, remembers also the last time that he met the
woman beloved. It was a small dark house and chilly; outside there was
rain and storm; and the sounds of the wind and of the rain were as the
sounds of people secretly listening, or sounds of people trying to look in
secretly through the windows. Evidently it was necessary that the meeting
should be secret, and it was not altogether as happy as could have been
wished.

The third example is a very beautiful poem; we must content ourselves with
an extract from it. It is the memory of a betrothal day, and the poet is
Frederick Tennyson. I suppose you know that there were three Tennysons,
and although Alfred happened to be the greatest, all of them were good
poets.

It is a golden morning of the spring,
My cheek is pale, and hers is warm with bloom,
And we are left in that old carven room,
And she begins to sing;

The open casement quivers in the breeze,
And one large musk-rose leans its dewy grace
Into the chamber, like a happy face,
And round it swim the bees;

* * * * *

I know not what I said--what she replied
Lives, like eternal sunshine, in my heart;
And then I murmured, Oh! we never part,
My love, my life, my bride!

* * * * *

And silence o'er us, after that great bliss,
Fell like a welcome shadow--and I heard
The far woods sighing, and a summer bird
Singing amid the trees;

The sweet bird's happy song, that streamed around,
The murmur of the woods, the azure skies,
Were graven on my heart, though ears and eyes
Marked neither sight nor sound.

She sleeps in peace beneath the chancel stone,
But ah! so clearly is the vision seen,
The dead seem raised, or Death has never been,
Were I not here alone.

This is great art in its power of picturing a memory of the heart. Let us
notice some of the beauties. The lover is pale because he is afraid,
anxious; he is going to ask a question and he does not know how she may
answer him. All this was long ago, years and years ago, but the strong
emotions of that morning leave their every detail painted in remembrance,
with strange vividness After all those years the man still recollects the
appearance of the room, the sunshine entering and the crimson rose looking
into the room from the garden, with bees humming round it. Th