As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh;

'Neath our feet broke the brittle, bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Delhem a dome-spire sprang white,

And "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!"

"How they'll greet us!"—and all in a moment his roan

Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;

And there was my Roland to bear

the whole weight

[From The Ring and The Book.] THE LACK OF CHILDREN.

WHAT could they be but happy ? – balanced so,

Nor low i' the social scale nor yet too high, Nor poor nor richer than comports with ease,

Nor bright and envied, nor obscure and scorned,

Nor so young that their pleasures fell too thick,

Nor old past catching pleasure when it fell,

Nothing above, below the just degree, All at the mean where joy's components mix.

So again, in the couple's very souls You saw the adequate half with half to match,

Each having and each lacking somewhat, both

Making a whole that had all and lacked naught;

The round and sound, in whose composure just

A worm was bred "Our life shall leave no fruit."

Enough of bliss, they thought, could bliss bear seed,

ing one

Violante's: both in union gave the

due Quietude, enterprise, craving and

content, Which go to bodily health and peace of mind.

But, as 'tis said a body, rightly mixed,

Each element in equipoise, would last

And groves a joyous sound,

Nor would its brightness shine for

me,

Nor its wild music flow; But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep.

They might not haste to go. Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom,

Should keep them lingering by my tomb.

flowers

reign.

Far in thy realm withdrawn Old empires sit in sullenness and gloom,

And glorious ages gone Lie deep within the shadow of thy womb.

Childhood, with all its mirth, Youth, Manhood, Age, that draws us to the ground,

And last, Man's Life on earth, Glide to thy dim dominions, and are bound.

Thou hast my better years, Thou hast my earlier friends - the good-the kind,

Yielded to thee with tears— The venerable form-the exalted

mind.

Full many a mighty name

When thoughts

The globe are but a handful to the tribes

That slumber in its bosom. - Take the wings

Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands,

Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound,

Save

his own dashings-yet the dead are there:

And millions in those solitudes, since first

The flight of years began, have laid them down

In their last sleep; the dead reign there alone.

So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw

In silence from the living, and no friend

Take note of thy departure? All that breathe

Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

When thou art gone; the solemn brood of care

Plod on, and each one as before will chase

His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave

Their mirth and their employments, and shall come,

And make their bed with thee. As the long train

Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes

In the full strength of years, matron, and maid,

And the sweet babe, and the grayheaded man,

Shall one by one be gathered to thy side.

By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan, which

moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take