III.

Watch in the deepest cell

Of the foeman's dungeon tower, Till hope's most cherished spell Has lost its cheering power; And sing, while the galling chain On every stiff limb freezes,

Of the huntsman hurrying o'er the plain, Of the breath of the mountain breezes.

IV.

Talk of the minstrel's lute,

The warrior's high endeavor,

When the honeyed lips are mute,

And the strong arm crushed for ever:

Look back to the summer sun,

From the mist of dark December; Then say to the broken-hearted one, ""Tis pleasant to remember!"

TELL HIM I LOVE HIM YET.

TELL him, I love him yet,

Ah, in that joyous time!

Tell him, I ne'er forget,

Though memory now be crime.

Tell him, when fades the light
Upon the earth and sea,

I dream of him by night

He must not dream of me!

Green, green upon his brow

The laurel wreath shall be

Although that laurel now

Must not be shared with me!

Tell him to smile again

In pleasure's dazzling throng,
To wear another's chain,
To praise another's song!

Before the loveliest there,

I'd have him bend the knee, And breathe to her the prayer

He used to breathe to me!

Tell him, that day by day,

Life looks to me more dim

I falter when I pray

Although I pray for him.

And bid him when I die,

Come to our fav'rite tree— I shall not hear him sigh— -Nor let him sigh for me!

THE RACE.*

THE sun hath shed a mellower beam,
Fair Thames, upon thy silvery stream,
And air and water, earth and heaven,
Lie in the calm repose of even.
How silently the breeze moves on,
Flutters, and whispers, and is gone,
How calmly does the quiet sky
Sleep in its cold serenity!

Alas! how sweet a scene were here

For shepherd or for sonneteer;
How fit the place, how fit the time,
For making love, or making rhyme!
But though the sun's descending ray
Smiles warmly on the close of day.
'Tis not to gaze upon the light
That Eton's sons are here to-night;
And though the river, calm and clear,
Makes music to the poet's ear,

* Fragments of a description of the procession of Eton boats by the river, and Eton cavaliers by land, to Surly Hall, on the evening of "Election Saturday"-the last poem written by Praed while at Eton.

'Tis not to listen to the sound

That Eton's sons are thronging round.
The sun unheeded may decline,

Blue eyes send out a brighter shine;
The wave may cease its gurgling moan,
Glad voices have a sweeter tone;
For, in our calendar of bliss,

We have no hour so gay as this,

When the kind hearts and brilliant eyes
Of those we know, and love, and prize,
Are come to cheer the captive's thrall,
And smile upon his festival.

Stay, Pegasus, and let me ask,
Ere I go onward in my task,
Pray, reader, were you ever here
Just at this season of the year?
No?-then the end of next July
Should bring you with admiring eye,
To hear us row, and see us row,

And cry-"How fast them boys does go!"

Lord! what would be the cynic's mirth,

If fate would lift him to the earth,
And set his tub, with magic jump,
Squat down beside the Brocas clump!
What scoffs the sage would utter there,
From his unpolish'd elbow-chair,
To see the sempstress' handy-work,
The Greek confounded with the Turk,