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Ah, the great bell tolleth ; never blow
Twice the self-same flowers, but other ones.

Flows not twice the self-same river.
All that majesty of prayers and alms,
All that sweetness as of chanted psalms,
Round the brow half princely, half St. John's,

It is gone for ever.

Ah, the great bell tolls! but through the cloud
If we see aright, and througb the mist,

Larger-eyed, and broader-brow'd,
With his stainless lawn divinely whiter,
With a crown, and not a heavy mitre,
In the grand cathedral fane of Christ,

Is the Archbishop bow'd.

Leave him with the Bishop of our souls.
Leare the princely old man with the bless'd.

Need is none of Fame's false scrolls.
Gleams are on his brow from God's own climate.
Draw the curtain round our grand old Primate.
Let the Angels sing him to his rest.
Ah, the great bell tolls !

W. A.

EARL CANNING.

(DIED TUESDAY, JUNE 17TH, 1862.)

(From “ Punch," June 28, 1862.)

ONE more strong swimmer gone down in the deep.

But not in mist of storm and breakers' roar :

He had fought through the surf and gained the shore, His native England's windy whitewalled steep,

Which he had toiled, and borne so much, to reach,

Ah, little did we think, who cheered him in,

How busy Death was mining all within !
The while we gave him welcome from the beach.

He waved acclaim and greetings of the crowd,

And only prayed he might be left at peace,

In pomp's eclipse and toil's well-earned surcease Toil that had stemmed disease, and grief o'eroowed.

We who had seen him striving with the storm,

In that dread time when England's Empire reeled,

Till her foes shouted : “Lo, her doom is sealed!"
And, as foul things round a sick lion swarm,

Base creatures on sore-stricken England pressed,

We who then watched him, patient, calm, and strong,

Not paying hate with hate, and wrong with wrong,
But fear and fury both serene to breast,

We deemed him steeled of body as of soul,

And when Death took his partner from his side,

And left him lone, his weary lot to abide,
We said the same high heart could grief control,
That had controlled despair, and doubt, and fear;

And when we knew that his return was nigh,

We planned him labours new and honours high,
Blind that we were, nor dreamed the end was near.
Of all the gifts that England could bestow

He has received but onean honoured grave;

Where knightly banners in the Abbey wave
O'er dust of English worthies, heaped below,
Another worthy sleeps ; the black plumes waved

Above him, cold and coffined, through the street

Where oft, we hoped, he would in council meet
For India's weal, the land that he had saved.
Nor for such council, nor speech of his peers,

Comes he to Westminster, but for his grave,

Where write, “He died for duty-modest, brave,
Mild, when the good felt wrath, calm, when the brave had fears."

THE INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION.

CANTATA by the Poet LAUREATE. Sung by Music composed by Professor Sterndale Bennett at the Opening of the International Exhibition, May 1, 1862.

UPLIFT a thousand voices full and sweet,

In this wide hall with earth's invention stored,

And praise the invisible universal Lord,
Who lets once more in peace the nations meet,

Where Science, Art, and Labour have outpour'd
Their myriad horns of plenty at our feet.

O, silent father of our Kings to be,
Mourn'd in this golden hour of jubilee,
For this, for all, we weep our thanks to thee!

The world-compelling plan was thine,

And lo! the long laborious miles

Of Palace; lo! the giant aisles,
Rich in model and design;
Harvest-tool and busbandry,
Loom and wheel and engin'ry,
Secrets of the sullen mine,
Steel and gold, and corn and wine,
Fabric rough, or Fairy fine,
Sunny tokens of the Line,
Polar marvels, and a feast
Of wonder, out of West and East,
And shapes and hues of Art divine!
All of beauty, all of use,
That one fair planet can produce,

Brought from under every star,
Blown from over every main,
And mixt, as life is mixt with pain,

The works of peace with works of war.
O ye, the wise who think, the wise who reign,
From growing commerce loose her latest chain,
And let the fair white-winged peacemaker fly
To happy havens under all the sky,
And mix the seasons and the golden hours,
Till each man find his own in all men's good,
And all men work in noble brotherhood,
Breaking their mailed fleets and armed towers
And ruling by obeying Nature's powers,
And gathering all the fruits of peace and crownd with
all her flowers.

A. TENNISON.

THE TWO QUEENS IN THE EXHIBITION.

(On the Night of May 1st, 1862.)
(From "Punch,” May 10th, 1862.)
Midnight in the monster Building,

The day's labour done,
Silence, where two thousand voices

Pealed but now like one ;
For the crowd of twice three thousand,

Here I pace alone,
From the orchestra desorted

To the empty throne.

Through the vasty void of silence

Did I hear a sound ?
Was it my own echoing foot-fall ?

Fireman on his round ?
Or Policeman slow patrolling

Transept, nave, and aisle ?
Was that gleam his bull's-eye streaming,

Or his moon-lit tile?
Ne'er fell tread of mine so stately,

Walks no fireman so;
Not thus sounds policeman's blucher,

Heavy-heeled and slow.
Never flashed from blinding bull's-eye

Radiance like that:
Never moon with such an aureole

Crowned policeman's hat.
Lo, two shapes from out the darkness .

Of the nave have grown!
Hand in hand they near the daïs,

Near the empty throne.
By the beamy crown that circles

Either radiant brow,
By their royal orbs and sceptres,

These be Queens I trow.
Strong the one of thew and sinew,

Giant-like of limb;
Coal-black is the robe upon her,

Fire her crown doth rim ;
And her sceptre is a hammer

Like Great Thor's of old :
And her feet, they clank like iron,

'Neath her garment's fold. Fair the other, with a beauty

Passing buman far;
Star-bedropped her azure raiment,

And her crown a star.
Perfect shape with perfect feature

Blent in form and face,
When she opes her lips, 'tis music,

When she moves, 'tis grace.
Straight to me, through their unlikeness,

These two Queens were known,
And I marked how each on other,

Pressed the vacant throne.
Strong Queen Handicraft to honour

Fair Queen Art was fain :
Fair Queen Art, with sweet resistance,

Waived the throne again.

“ Yours," quoth Art, " is this profusion

Of the fruits of toil,
Loom and forge-work, clay and crystal,

Growth of seed and soil.
Yours the spinning of men-spiders,

Honey of men's hives;
What creates or costs men comfort,

Makes or mars their lives." “ Nay," quoth Handicraft, “ the roughing

of the mass is mine ;
But 'tis thy hand gives the beauty,

Moulding by design.
Thine the forms of clay and crystal,

Iron, brass and gold,
Textile pattern, woven colour,

Gorgeous to behold!" “ Spak'st thou sooth," fair Art protested,

“ Thou prevail'st no more ; Mine the hand which shapes the coinage,

Thine which digs the ore.
I am but a humble handmaid,

Chain'd to thy behest,
Thou, that in this age of iron

Dost as likes thee best."
“Nay, but," Handicraft retorted,

“On the upper floor Moved I not through long-drawn galleries,

Graced with all thy store ? Where on canvas or in marble

Thou thy might hast shown-
Man and beast, sea, earth and cloudland,

Claiming for thine own?"
So was urged these Queens' contention,

Each, in answer fit,
Giving reasons why the other

On the throne should sit.
Till at last quoth Art, -divided

Between smile and sigh,-“Needs there proof, that to this throning

Ne'er a claim have I ? * Look around; though all these treasures

of thy wide domain
Bore my seal, that here I'm alien,

It would still be plain.
In the Building that contains them

Place nor part I owe,
From the domes that rise above us,

To the sheds below.

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