Sainted Juliet! dearest name! If to love be life alone, Divinest Juliet, I love thee, and live; and yet Love unreturned is like the fragrant flame Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice Offered to gods upon an altarthrone; My heart is lighted at thine eyes, Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs. Song—“I’ the glooming light...” I I’ the glooming light Of middle night So cold and white, Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave; Beside her are laid Her mattock and spade, For she hath half delved her own deep grave. Alone she is there: The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose; Her shoulders are bare; Her tears are mixed with the bearded dews. II Death standeth by; She will not die; With glazed eye She looks at her grave: she cannot sleep; Ever alone She maketh her moan: She cannot speak; she can only weep; For she will not hope. The thick snow falls on her flake by flake, The dull wave mourns down the slope, The world will not change, and her heart will not break. Song—“The lintwhite and the throstlecock...” I The lintwhite and the throstlecock Have voices sweet and clear; All in the bloomed May. They from the blosmy brere Call to the fleeting year, If that he would them hear And stay. Alas! that one so beautiful Should have so dull an ear. II Fair year, fair year, thy children call, But thou art deaf as death; All in the bloomèd May. When thy light perisheth That from thee issueth, Our life evanisheth: Oh! stay. Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb Should have so sweet a breath! III Fair year, with brows of royal love Thou comest, as a king, All in the bloomèd May. Thy golden largess fling, And longer hear us sing; Though thou art fleet of wing, Yet stay. Alas! that eyes so full of light Should be so wandering! IV Thy locks are all of sunny sheen In rings of gold yronne,[1] All in the bloomèd May, We pri’thee pass not on; If thou dost leave the sun, Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay. Thou art the fairest of thy feres, We pri’thee pass not on. [1] His crispè hair in ringis was yronne.— Chaucer, _Knight’s Tale_. (Tennyson’s note.) Song—“Every day hath its night...” I Every day hath its night: Every night its morn: Thorough dark and bright Wingèd hours are borne; Ah! welaway! Seasons flower and fade; Golden calm and storm Mingle day by day. There is no bright form Doth not cast a shade— Ah! welaway! II When we laugh, and our mirth Apes the happy vein, We’re so kin to earth, Pleasaunce fathers pain— Ah! welaway! Madness laugheth loud: Laughter bringeth tears: Eyes are worn away Till the end of fears Cometh in the shroud, Ah! welaway! III All is change, woe or weal; Joy is Sorrow’s brother; Grief and gladness steal Symbols of each other; Ah! welaway! Larks in heaven’s cope Sing: the culvers mourn All the livelong day. Be not all forlorn; Let us weep, in hope— Ah! welaway! Nothing Will Die