“Nusquam invenies fulgere Canopum donec Niliacas per pontum veneris oras,” and Lucan, _Pharsal._, viii., 181-3. [21] Substituted in 1843 for the reading of 1833 and 1842. [22] Substituted in 1845 for the reading of 1833, 1842, 1843, which ran as recorded _supra_. 1845 to 1848. Lybian. And for the reading of 1843 Sigh’d forth with life I had no further fear, O what a little worm stole Caesar’s fame! [23] A splendid transfusion of Horace’s lines about her, Ode I., xxxvii. Invidens Privata deduci superto Non humilis mulier triumpho. [24] 1833 and 1842. Touched. [25] For the story of Jephtha’s daughter see Judges, chap. xi. [26] All editions up to and including 1851. In his den. [27] For reference see Judges xi, 33. [28] 1833. Ere I saw her, that in her latest trance Clasped her dead father’s heart, or Joan of Arc. The reference is, of course, to the well-known story of Margaret Roper, the daughter of Sir Thomas More, who is said to have taken his head when he was executed and preserved it till her death. [29] Eleanor, the wife of Edward I., is said to have thus saved his life when he was stabbed at Acre with a poisoned dagger. [30] The earliest and latest editions, _i. e._, 1833 and 1853, have “tho’,” and all the editions between “though”. “Though culled,” etc. Margaret First printed in 1833. Another of Tennyson’s delicious fancy portraits, the twin sister to Adeline. 1 O sweet pale Margaret, O rare pale Margaret, What lit your eyes with tearful power, Like moonlight on a falling shower? Who lent you, love, your mortal dower Of pensive thought and aspect pale, Your melancholy sweet and frail As perfume of the cuckoo-flower? From the westward-winding flood, From the evening-lighted wood, From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho’[1] you stood Between the rainbow and the sun. The very smile before you speak, That dimples your transparent cheek, Encircles all the heart, and feedeth The senses with a still delight Of dainty sorrow without sound, Like the tender amber round, Which the moon about her spreadeth, Moving thro’ a fleecy night. 2 You love, remaining peacefully, To hear the murmur of the strife, But enter not the toil of life. Your spirit is the calmed sea, Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway Remaining betwixt dark and bright: Lull’d echoes of laborious day Come to you, gleams of mellow light Float by you on the verge of night. 3 What can it matter, Margaret, What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet,[2] Sang looking thro’ his prison bars? Exquisite Margaret, who can tell The last wild thought of Chatelet,[3] Just ere the falling axe did part The burning brain from the true heart, Even in her sight he loved so well? 4