And I had fall'n asleep with to my breast
A chance-found letter press'd

In which she said,

"So, till to-morrow eve, my Own, adieu! Parting's well-paid with soon again to meet, Soon in your arms to feel so small and sweet, Sweet to myself that am so sweet to you!"

WILLIAM ALEXANDER

A VISION OF OXFORD

Methought I met a Lady yestereven;

Born 1824

A passionless grief, that had nor tear nor wail, Sat on her pure proud face, that gleam'd to Heaven, White as a moon-lit sail.

She spake: "On this pale brow are looks of youth,
Yet angels listening on the argent floor
Know that these lips have been proclaiming truth,
Nine hundred years and more:

"And Isis knows what time-grey towers rear'd up, Gardens and groves and cloister'd halls are mine, Where quaff my sons from many a myrrhine cup Draughts of ambrosial wine.

"He knows how night by night my lamps are lit, How day by day my bells are ringing clear,

Mother of ancient lore, and Attic wit,

And discipline severe.

"It may be long ago my dizzied brain
Enchanted swam beneath Rome's master spell,
Till like light tinctured by the painted pane
Thought in her colours fell.

"Yet when the great old tongue with strong effect
Woke from the sepulchre across the sea,
The subtler spell of Grecian intellect
Work'd mightily in me.

"Time pass'd—my groves were full of warlike stirs ;
The student's heart was with the merry spears,
Or keeping measure to the clanking spurs
Of Rupert's Cavaliers.

'All those long ages, like a holy mother
I rear'd my children to a lore sublime,
Picking up fairer shells than any other
Along the shores of Time.

"And must I speak at last of sensual sleep,
The dull forgetfulness of aimless years?
O! let me turn away my head and weep
Than Rachel's bitterer tears.

"Tears for the passionate hearts I might have won,
Tears for the age with which I might have striven,
Tears for a hundred years of work undone,
Crying like blood to Heaven.

"I have repented, and my glorious name

Stands scutcheon'd round with blazonry more bright.

The wither'd rod, the emblem of my shame,
Bloom'd blossoms in a night.

"And I have led my children on steep mountains
By fine attraction of my spirit brought
Up to the dark inexplicable fountains

That are the springs of thought:

"Led them-where on the old poetic shore

The flowers that change not with the changing

moon

Breathe round young hearts, as breathes the

sycamore

About the bees in June.

"And I will bear them as on eagle's wings,

To leave them bow'd before the sapphire Throne, High o'er the haunts where dying pleasure sings With sweet and swanlike tone.

"And I will lead the age's great expansions,

Progressive circles toward thought's Sabbath

rest,

And point beyond them to the 'many mansions' Where Christ is with the blest.

"Am I not pledged, who gave my bridal ring
To that old man, heroic, strong, and true,
Whose grey-hair'd virtue was a nobler thing
Than even Waterloo?

"Surely that spousal morn my chosen ones
Felt their hearts moving to mysterious calls,
And the old pictures of my sainted sons
Look'd brighter from the walls.

"He sleeps at last-no wind's tempestuous breath
Play'd a Dead March upon the moaning billow,
What time God's Angel visited with death
The old Field-Marshal's pillow.

"There was no omen of a great disaster

Where castled Walmer stands beside the shore;

The evening clouds, like pillar'd alabaster,

Hung huge and silent o'er.