The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
But o'er the dark a glory spreads,

And gilds the driving hail.

I leave the plain, I climb the height;
No branchy thicket shelter yields;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.

The clouds are broken in the sky,
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony

Swells up and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
'O just and faithful knight of God!
Ride on the prize is near.'

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,

Until I find the Holy Grail.

LORD TENNYSON

YOUTH AND DUTY

In an age of fops and toys,
Wanting wisdom, void of right,
Who shall nerve heroic boys

To hazard all in Freedom's fight

Break sharply off their games,

Forsake their comrades gay

And quit proud homes and youthful dames
For famine, toil, and fray?

Yet on the nimble air benign

Speed nimbler messages,

That waft the breath of grace divine

To hearts in sloth and ease.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When Duty whispers low, Thou must,

The Youth replies, I can.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON

THE WILD RIDE

I HEAR in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses
All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses,
All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and
neighing.

Let cowards and laggards fall back! but alert to the saddle

Weather-worn and abreast, go men of our galloping

legion,

With a stirrup-cup each to the lily of women that loves

him.

The trail is through dolor and dread, over crags and

morasses;

There are shapes by the way, there are things that appal and entice us:

What odds? We are Knights of the Grail, we are vowed to the riding.

Thought's self is a vanishing wing, and joy is a cobweb,

And friendship a flower in the dust, and glory a sun

beam:

Not here is our prize, nor, alas! after these our pursuing.

A dipping of plumes, a tear, a shake of the bridle,
A passing salute to this world and her pitiful beauty:
We hurry with never a word in the track of our fathers.

(I hear in my heart, I hear in its ominous pulses All day, on the road, the hoofs of invisible horses, All night, from their stalls, the importunate pawing and neighing.)

We spur to a land of no name, out-racing the stormwind;

We leap to the infinite dark like sparks from the anvil. Thou leadest, O God! All's well with Thy troopers

that follow.

LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY

GLORY IN YOUTH

OH, talk not to me of a name great in story;
The days of our youth are the days of our glory;
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?

'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!

Oh, FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee;
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory.

LORD BYRON

I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER

I REMEMBER, I remember

The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!

I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday-
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,

That is so heavy now,

And summer pools could hardly cool

The fever on my brow!