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best lines; but I persuaded him to replace it when he came home. It is a mistake in general for him to listen to the suggestions of others about his poems."
All this was long ago, and the finger of memory has left faint tracings for me to follow; but I recall her figure at dinner as she sat in her soft white muslin dress, tied with blue, at that time hardly whiter than her face or bluer than her eyes, and how the boys stood sometimes one on either side of her in their black velvet dresses, like Millais' picture of the princes in the tower, and sometimes helped to serve the guests. By and by we adjourned to another room, where there was a fire and a shining dark table with fruit and wine after her own picturesque fashion, and where later the poet read to us, while she, being always delicate in health, took her accustomed couch. I remember the quaint apartment for the night, on different levels, and the faded tapestry, recalling "the faded mantle and the faded veil," her tender personal care, and her friendly good-night, the silence, the sweetness, and the calm.
She sometimes joined our out-door expeditions, but could not walk with
For years she used a wheeled chair, as Mrs. Ritchie has charmingly described in her truthful and sympathetic sketch of the life at Aldworth. I only associated her with the interior, where her influence was perfect.
The social atmosphere of Farring ford, which depended upon its mistress, was warm and simple. A pleasant company of neighbors and friends was gathered when "Maud" was read aloud to us, a wide group, grateful and appreciative, and one to which he liked
dusky figure standing by her side, and that is all.
Sometimes she lives confusedly to the world of imagination as the Abbess at Almesbury; and sometimes, as one who knew her has said, she was like the first of the three queens, "the tallest of them all, and fairest," who bore away the body of Arthur. She was no less than these, being a living inspiration at the heart of the poet's every-day life.
It would seem to be upon another visit that we were talking together in the drawing-room about Browning. "We should like to see him oftener," she said, "he is delightful company, but we cannot get him to come here; we are too quiet for him!"
I found food for thought in this little speech when I remembered the fatuous talk at dinner-tables where I had sometimes met Browning, and thought of Tennyson's great talk and the lofty serenity of his lady's pres
My last interview with Lady Tennyson was scarcely two months before Tennyson's death. The great grief of their life in the loss of their son Lionel had fallen upon them meanwhile. They were then at Aldworth, which, although a house of their own building, was far more medieval in appearance than Farringford. She was alone, and still on the couch in the large drawing-room, and there she spoke with the same youth of heart, the same deep tenderness, the same simple affection which had never failed through years of intercourse. When she rose to say farewell and to follow me as far as possible, she stepped with the same spirited sweep I had first seen.
The happiness of welcoming her lovely face, which wore to those who knew her an indescribable heavenliness, is mine no more; but the memory cannot be effaced of one lady who held the traditions of human exist
From "Authors and Friends." By Annie Fields. Houghton, Mifflin & Company, Publishers.
POEMS BY H. C. BUNNER.
They sent him round the circle fair,
His task was then anew begun-
Are less than the sick whose smiles come quick
At the touch of my lady's hand.
Her little shoe of satin
Peeps underneath her skirt-
And heavy hearts rejoice
As they can tell who know her well-
her glove is soft as feathers
Upon the nestling dove:
Its touch so light I have no right
I watch, and pray that some happy day
THE FRIVOLOUS GIRL.
Her silken gown it rustles
And in all the place there's ne'er a face
When a little sick child looked up and smiled
As she sat on my lady's knee.
Fer fan it flirts and flutters,
Her eyes grow bright, grow dim,-
LET US HAVE PEACE.
Not in the whirlwind of his fight,
Peace was his triumph, greater far than all before.
Who in the spirit and love of peace
Makes war on war, that wars may
He striveth undismayed,
And in the eternal strength his morta strength is stayed.
Peace, that he conquered for our sake-
We saw the clouds of battle break
But brighter shone the light about his dying bed.
Dead is thy warrior, King of Life,
The prayer of them that knew his strife
Peace be to him who fought-and fought
for Peace alone.
From "Poems." By H. C. Bunner. Charles Scribner's Sons, Publishers.
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BACK TO THE SEA MOTHER.
By the yesterdays were hidden, And to-morrow flowered unbidden
Kindest of mothers, from whom I have Round feet that moved unchidden
But Chenonceaux, lightly scorning Lapse of years and fortune's lies, Watched the valley wake at morning
And the sunset fill the skies With its pageant rare and splendidLike a queen with pomp attended Till her little day is ended And she dies.
And doubtless yet some lady
Spends her happy springtime there, And wanders through the shady
Woodland paths with loosened hair,
Or, laughing with her lover,
In the days of pomp and pleasure
A lordly house of leisure
On the little, laughing Cher,
And the waters danced around it,
And the green banks rose to bound it
And thither, spurring level
With their plumes upon the breeze, Rode the gallants to the revel
Lusty hearts that ranged at ease O'er the vineclad slopes, and clattered Through the village streets, and battered At the hostels, ere they scattered 'Mid the trees.
Ah, the hunting and the hawking
As they leaned and watched the river
But love may lose its glamour,
The eyes that could enamour
And the lips that granted grace
A GALE PASSING OVER GRAVES. "Rest ye shall find,"
The grasses bind:
Over the headstones the undulant wind.
Yews at the root
Of a tomb stand mute;
While the orchard-garlands heave their fruit.
On the stony clay:
The willows flow free from the south to-day.
Darksome the tomb:
The dove-feathered heaven, plume on plume.
Peaceful the grave;
But how life is brave.
The rows of elms in their rhythm rave.
Let the grasses bind!
In the host of the cloud-compelling wind.