Part 4 — PART IV

In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot;

Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse— Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance— With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right— The leaves upon her falling light— Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, Dead-pale between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot: But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, 'She has a lovely face; God in His mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.'

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

701. The Miller's Daughter

IT is the miller's daughter, And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel That trembles in her ear: For hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle About her dainty dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me, In sorrow and in rest: And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom, With her laughter or her sighs: And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

702. Song of the Lotos-Eaters

THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 'There is no joy but calm!'— Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?

Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow Falls, and floats adown the air. Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days, The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; To hear each other's whisper'd speech; Eating the Lotos day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, And tender curving lines of creamy spray; To lend our hearts and spirits wholly To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; For surely now our household hearts are cold: Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange: And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. Or else the island princes over-bold Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. Is there confusion in the little isle? Let what is broken so remain. The Gods are hard to reconcile: 'Tis hard to settle order once again. There is confusion worse than death, Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, Long labour unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill— To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine— To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where the smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

703. St. Agnes' Eve

DEEP on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes: May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.

As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide— A light upon the shining sea— The Bridegroom with his bride!

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

704. Blow, Bugle, blow

THE splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

705. Summer Night

NOW sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danae to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

706. Come down, O Maid

COME down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang), In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for Love is of the valley, come, For Love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

707. From 'In Memoriam' (ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, MDCCCXXXIII)

I

FAIR ship, that from the Italian shore Sailest the placid ocean-plains With my lost Arthur's loved remains, Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.

So draw him home to those that mourn In vain; a favourable speed Ruffle thy mirror'd mast, and lead Thro' prosperous floods his holy urn.

All night no ruder air perplex Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright As our pure love, thro' early light Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.

Sphere all your lights around, above; Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, My friend, the brother of my love;

My Arthur, whom I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run; Dear as the mother to the son, More than my brothers are to me.

II

I hear the noise about thy keel; I hear the bell struck in the night; I see the cabin-window bright; I see the sailor at the wheel.

Thou bring'st the sailor to his wife, And travell'd men from foreign lands; And letters unto trembling hands; And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him: we have idle dreams: This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies: O to us, The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod, That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains The chalice of the grapes of God;

Than if with thee the roaring wells Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp'd in mine, Should toss with tangle and with shells.

III

Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro' the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold, And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers, To mingle with the bounding main:

Calm and deep peace in this wide air, These leaves that redden to the fall; And in my heart, if calm at all, If any calm, a calm despair:

Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, And waves that sway themselves in rest, And dead calm in that noble breast Which heaves but with the heaving deep.

IV

To-night the winds begin to rise And roar from yonder dropping day: The last red leaf is whirl'd away, The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack'd, the waters curl'd, The cattle huddled on the lea; And wildly dash'd on tower and tree The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver That all thy motions gently pass Athwart a plane of molten glass, I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud; And but for fear it is not so, The wild unrest that lives in woe Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a labouring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

V

Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze Compell'd thy canvas, and my prayer Was as the whisper of an air To breathe thee over lonely seas.

For I in spirit saw thee move Thro' circles of the bounding sky, Week after week: the days go by: Come quick, thou bringest all I love.

Henceforth, wherever thou mayst roam My blessing, like a line of light, Is on the waters day and night, And like a beacon guards thee home.

So may whatever tempest mars Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark; And balmy drops in summer dark Slide from the bosom of the stars.

So kind an office hath been done, Such precious relics brought by thee; The dust of him I shall not see Till all my widow'd race be run.

VI

Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,

Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads;

And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan:

When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;

And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood;

And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady.

VII

How fares it with the happy dead? For here the man is more and more; But he forgets the days before God shut the doorways of his head.

The days have vanish'd, tone and tint, And yet perhaps the hoarding sense Gives out at times (he knows not whence) A little flash, a mystic hint;

And in the long harmonious years (If Death so taste Lethean springs) May some dim touch of earthly things Surprise thee ranging with thy peers.

If such a dreamy touch should fall, O turn thee round, resolve the doubt; My guardian angel will speak out In that high place, and tell thee all.

VIII

The wish, that of the living whole No life may fail beyond the grave, Derives it not from what we have The likest God within the soul?

Are God and Nature then at strife, That Nature lends such evil dreams? So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life;

That I, considering everywhere Her secret meaning in her deeds, And finding that of fifty seeds She often brings but one to bear,

I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God,

I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.

IX

'So careful of the type?' but no. From scarped cliff and quarried stone She cries, 'A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go.

Thou makest thine appeal to me: I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean the breath: I know no more.' And he, shall he,

Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law— Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed—

Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust, Or seal'd within the iron hills?

No more? A monster then, a dream, A discord. Dragons of the prime, That tare each other in their slime, Were mellow music match'd with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail! O for thy voice to soothe and bless! What hope of answer, or redress? Behind the veil, behind the veil.

X

Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, The tender blossom flutter down; Unloved, that beech will gather brown, This maple burn itself away;

Unloved, the sunflower, shining fair, Ray round with flames her disk of seed, And many a rose-carnation feed With summer spice the humming air;

Unloved, by many a sandy bar, The brook shall babble down the plain, At noon or when the lesser wain Is twisting round the polar star;

Uncared for, gird the windy grove, And flood the haunts of hern and crake; Or into silver arrows break The sailing moon in creek and cove;

Till from the garden and the wild A fresh association blow, And year by year the landscape grow Familiar to the stranger's child;

As year by year the labourer tills His wonted glebe, or lops the glades; And year by year our memory fades From all the circle of the hills.

XI

Now fades the last long streak of snow, Now burgeons every maze of quick About the flowering squares, and thick By ashen roots the violets blow.

Now rings the woodland loud and long, The distance takes a lovelier hue, And drown'd in yonder living blue The lark becomes a sightless song.

Now dance the lights on lawn and lea, The flocks are whiter down the vale, And milkier every milky sail On winding stream or distant sea;

Where now the seamew pipes, or dives In yonder greening gleam, and fly The happy birds, that change their sky To build and brood; that live their lives

From land to land; and in my breast Spring wakens too; and my regret Becomes an April violet, And buds and blossoms like the rest.

XII

Love is and was my Lord and King, And in his presence I attend To hear the tidings of my friend, Which every hour his couriers bring.

Love is and was my King and Lord, And will be, tho' as yet I keep Within his court on earth, and sleep Encompass'd by his faithful guard,

And hear at times a sentinel Who moves about from place to place, And whispers to the worlds of space, In the deep night, that all is well.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

708. Maud

COME into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, Night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown.

For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die.

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

I said to the lily, 'There is but one With whom she has heart to be gay. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play.' Now half to the setting moon are gone, And half to the rising day; Low on the sand and loud on the stone The last wheel echoes away.

I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes In babble and revel and wine. O young lord-lover, what sighs are those For one that will never be thine? But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, 'For ever and ever, mine.'

And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall; And long by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all;

From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs He sets the jewel-print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes, To the woody hollows in which we meet And the valleys of Paradise.

The slender acacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake, They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither, the dances are done, In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls. To the flowers, and be their sun.

There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear; She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;' And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;' The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;' And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

Alfred Tennyson, Lord Tennyson. 1809-1892

709. O that 'twere possible

O THAT 'twere possible After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again!…

A shadow flits before me, Not thou, but like to thee: Ah, Christ! that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be!

Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord Houghton. 1809-1885

710. Shadows

THEY seem'd, to those who saw them meet, The casual friends of every day; Her smile was undisturb'd and sweet, His courtesy was free and gay.

But yet if one the other's name In some unguarded moment heard, The heart you thought so calm and tame Would struggle like a captured bird:

And letters of mere formal phrase Were blister'd with repeated tears,— And this was not the work of days, But had gone on for years and years!

Alas, that love was not too strong For maiden shame and manly pride! Alas, that they delay'd so long The goal of mutual bliss beside!

Yet what no chance could then reveal, And neither would be first to own, Let fate and courage now conceal, When truth could bring remorse alone.

Henry Alford. 1810-1871

711. The Bride

'RISE,' said the Master, 'come unto the feast.' She heard the call and rose with willing feet; But thinking it not otherwise than meet For such a bidding to put on her best, She is gone from us for a few short hours Into her bridal closet, there to wait For the unfolding of the palace gate That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers. We have not seen her yet, though we have been Full often to her chamber door, and oft Have listen'd underneath the postern green, And laid fresh flowers, and whisper'd short and soft. But she hath made no answer, and the day From the clear west is fading fast away.

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

712. Cean Dubh Deelish

PUT your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

O many and many a young girl for me is pining, Letting her locks of gold to the cold wind free, For me, the foremost of our gay young fellows; But I'd leave a hundred, pure love, for thee!

Then put your head, darling, darling, darling, Your darling black head my heart above; O mouth of honey, with thyme for fragrance, Who, with heart in breast, could deny you love?

Cean dubh deelish] darling black head.

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

713. Cashel of Munster FROM THE IRISH

I'D wed you without herds, without money or rich array, And I'd wed you on a dewy morn at day-dawn gray; My bitter woe it is, love, that we are not far away In Cashel town, tho' the bare deal board were our marriage-bed this day!

O fair maid, remember the green hill-side, Remember how I hunted about the valleys wide; Time now has worn me; my locks are turn'd to gray; The year is scarce and I am poor—but send me not, love, away!

O deem not my blood is of base strain, my girl; O think not my birth was as the birth of a churl; Marry me and prove me, and say soon you will That noble blood is written on my right side still.

My purse holds no red gold, no coin of the silver white; No herds are mine to drive through the long twilight; But the pretty girl that would take me, all bare tho' I be and lone, O, I'd take her with me kindly to the county Tyrone!

O my girl, I can see 'tis in trouble you are; And O my girl, I see 'tis your people's reproach you bear! —I am a girl in trouble for his sake with whom I fly, And, O, may no other maiden know such reproach as I!

Sir Samuel Ferguson. 1810-1886

714. The Fair Hills of Ireland FROM THE IRISH

A PLENTEOUS place is Ireland for hospitable cheer, Uileacan dubh O! Where the wholesome fruit is bursting from the yellow barley ear; Uileacan dubh O! There is honey in the trees where her misty vales expand, And her forest paths in summer are by falling waters fann'd, There is dew at high noontide there, and springs i' the yellow sand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Curl'd he is and ringleted, and plaited to the knee— Uileacan dubh O! Each captain who comes sailing across the Irish Sea; Uileacan dubh O! And I will make my journey, if life and health but stand, Unto that pleasant country, that fresh and fragrant strand, And leave your boasted braveries, your wealth and high command, For the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Large and profitable are the stacks upon the ground, Uileacan dubh O! The butter and the cream do wondrously abound; Uileacan dubh O! The cresses on the water and the sorrels are at hand, And the cuckoo 's calling daily his note of music bland, And the bold thrush sings so bravely his song i' the forests grand, On the fair hills of holy Ireland.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

715. Song from 'Paracelsus'

HEAP cassia, sandal-buds and stripes Of labdanum, and aloe-balls, Smear'd with dull nard an Indian wipes From out her hair: such balsam falls Down sea-side mountain pedestals, From tree-tops where tired winds are fain, Spent with the vast and howling main, To treasure half their island-gain.

And strew faint sweetness from some old Egyptian's fine worm-eaten shroud Which breaks to dust when once unroll'd; Or shredded perfume, like a cloud From closet long to quiet vow'd, With moth'd and dropping arras hung, Mouldering her lute and books among, As when a queen, long dead, was young.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

716. The Wanderers

OVER the sea our galleys went, With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave— A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew, And nail'd all over the gaping sides, Within and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game; So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view. But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning droop'd the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor star-shine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawn'd, O, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretch'd along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleam'd soft light and curl'd rich scent, And with light and perfume, music too: So the stars wheel'd round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast!

Now, one morn, land appear'd—a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky— 'Avoid it,' cried our pilot, 'check The shout, restrain the eager eye!' But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a rock, drew nigh; So we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck! We shouted, every man of us, And steer'd right into the harbour thus, With pomp and paean glorious.

A hundred shapes of lucid stone! All day we built its shrine for each, A shrine of rock for ever one, Nor paused till in the westering sun We sat together on the beach To sing because our task was done; When lo! what shouts and merry songs! What laughter all the distance stirs! A loaded raft with happy throngs Of gentle islanders! 'Our isles are just at hand,' they cried, 'Like cloudlets faint in even sleeping; Our temple-gates are open'd wide, Our olive-groves thick shade are keeping For these majestic forms'—they cried. O, then we awoke with sudden start From our deep dream, and knew, too late, How bare the rock, how desolate, Which had received our precious freight: Yet we call'd out—'Depart! Our gifts, once given, must here abide: Our work is done; we have no heart To mar our work,'—we cried.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

717. Thus the Mayne glideth

THUS the Mayne glideth Where my Love abideth; Sleep 's no softer: it proceeds On through lawns, on through meads, On and on, whate'er befall, Meandering and musical, Though the niggard pasturage Bears not on its shaven ledge Aught but weeds and waving grasses To view the river as it passes, Save here and there a scanty patch Of primroses too faint to catch A weary bee…. And scarce it pushes Its gentle way through strangling rushes Where the glossy kingfisher Flutters when noon-heats are near, Glad the shelving banks to shun, Red and steaming in the sun, Where the shrew-mouse with pale throat Burrows, and the speckled stoat; Where the quick sandpipers flit In and out the marl and grit That seems to breed them, brown as they: Naught disturbs its quiet way, Save some lazy stork that springs, Trailing it with legs and wings, Whom the shy fox from the hill Rouses, creep he ne'er so still.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

718. Pippa's Song

THE year 's at the spring, And day 's at the morn; Morning 's at seven; The hill-side 's dew-pearl'd; The lark 's on the wing; The snail 's on the thorn; God 's in His heaven— All 's right with the world!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

719. You'll love Me yet

YOU'LL love me yet!—and I can tarry Your love's protracted growing: June rear'd that bunch of flowers you carry, From seeds of April's sowing.

I plant a heartful now: some seed At least is sure to strike, And yield—what you'll not pluck indeed, Not love, but, may be, like.

You'll look at least on love's remains, A grave 's one violet: Your look?—that pays a thousand pains. What 's death? You'll love me yet!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

720. Porphyria's Lover

THE rain set early in to-night, The sullen wind was soon awake, It tore the elm-tops down for spite, And did its worst to vex the lake: I listen'd with heart fit to break. When glided in Porphyria; straight She shut the cold out and the storm, And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate Blaze up, and all the cottage warm; Which done, she rose, and from her form Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl, And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied Her hat and let the damp hair fall, And, last, she sat down by my side And call'd me. When no voice replied, She put my arm about her waist, And made her smooth white shoulder bare, And all her yellow hair displaced, And, stooping, made my cheek lie there, And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair, Murmuring how she loved me—she Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour, To set its struggling passion free From pride, and vainer ties dissever, And give herself to me for ever. But passion sometimes would prevail, Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain A sudden thought of one so pale For love of her, and all in vain: So, she was come through wind and rain. Be sure I look'd up at her eyes Happy and proud; at last I knew Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise Made my heart swell, and still it grew While I debated what to do. That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain. And I untighten'd next the tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss: I propp'd her head up as before, Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head, which droops upon it still: The smiling rosy little head, So glad it has its utmost will, That all it scorn'd at once is fled, And I, its love, am gain'd instead! Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how Her darling one wish would be heard. And thus we sit together now, And all night long we have not stirr'd, And yet God has not said a word!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

721. Song

NAY but you, who do not love her, Is she not pure gold, my mistress? Holds earth aught—speak truth—above her? Aught like this tress, see, and this tress, And this last fairest tress of all, So fair, see, ere I let it fall? Because, you spend your lives in praising; To praise, you search the wide world over: Then why not witness, calmly gazing, If earth holds aught—speak truth—above her? Above this tress, and this, I touch But cannot praise, I love so much!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

722. Earl Mertoun's Song

THERE 's a woman like a dewdrop, she 's so purer than the purest; And her noble heart 's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wild-grape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music … call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!

And this woman says, 'My days were sunless and my nights were moonless, Parch'd the pleasant April herbage, and the lark's heart's outbreak tuneless, If you loved me not!' And I who (ah, for words of flame!) adore her, Who am mad to lay my spirit prostrate palpably before her— I may enter at her portal soon, as now her lattice takes me, And by noontide as by midnight make her mine, as hers she makes me!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

723. In a Gondola

THE moth's kiss, first! Kiss me as if you made me believe You were not sure, this eve, How my face, your flower, had pursed Its petals up; so, here and there You brush it, till I grow aware Who wants me, and wide ope I burst.

The bee's kiss, now! Kiss me as if you enter'd gay My heart at some noonday, A bud that dares not disallow The claim, so all is render'd up, And passively its shatter'd cup Over your head to sleep I bow.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

724. Meeting at Night

THE gray sea and the long black land; And the yellow half-moon large and low; And the startled little waves that leap In fiery ringlets from their sleep, As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed i' the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach; Three fields to cross till a farm appears; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match, And a voice less loud, thro' its joys and fears, Than the two hearts beating each to each!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

725. Parting at Morning

ROUND the cape of a sudden came the sea, And the sun look'd over the mountain's rim: And straight was a path of gold for him, And the need of a world of men for me.

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

726. The Lost Mistress

ALL 's over, then: does truth sound bitter As one at first believes? Hark, 'tis the sparrows' good-night twitter About your cottage eaves!

And the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly, I noticed that, to-day; One day more bursts them open fully —You know the red turns gray.

To-morrow we meet the same then, dearest? May I take your hand in mine? Mere friends are we,—well, friends the merest Keep much that I resign:

For each glance of the eye so bright and black, Though I keep with heart's endeavour,— Your voice, when you wish the snowdrops back, Though it stay in my soul for ever!—

Yet I will but say what mere friends say, Or only a thought stronger; I will hold your hand but as long as all may, Or so very little longer!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

727. The Last Ride together

I SAID—Then, dearest, since 'tis so, Since now at length my fate I know, Since nothing all my love avails, Since all, my life seem'd meant for, fails, Since this was written and needs must be— My whole heart rises up to bless Your name in pride and thankfulness! Take back the hope you gave,—I claim Only a memory of the same, —And this beside, if you will not blame; Your leave for one more last ride with me.

My mistress bent that brow of hers, Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs When pity would be softening through, Fix'd me a breathing-while or two With life or death in the balance: right! The blood replenish'd me again; My last thought was at least not vain: I and my mistress, side by side Shall be together, breathe and ride, So, one day more am I deified. Who knows but the world may end to-night?

Hush! if you saw some western cloud All billowy-bosom'd, over-bow'd By many benedictions—sun's And moon's and evening-star's at once— And so, you, looking and loving best, Conscious grew, your passion drew Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too, Down on you, near and yet more near, Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!— Thus leant she and linger'd—joy and fear! Thus lay she a moment on my breast.

Then we began to ride. My soul Smooth'd itself out, a long-cramp'd scroll Freshening and fluttering in the wind. Past hopes already lay behind. What need to strive with a life awry? Had I said that, had I done this, So might I gain, so might I miss. Might she have loved me? just as well She might have hated, who can tell! Where had I been now if the worst befell? And here we are riding, she and I.

Fail I alone, in words and deeds? Why, all men strive and who succeeds? We rode; it seem'd my spirit flew, Saw other regions, cities new, As the world rush'd by on either side. I thought,—All labour, yet no less Bear up beneath their unsuccess. Look at the end of work, contrast The petty done, the undone vast, This present of theirs with the hopeful past! I hoped she would love me; here we ride.

What hand and brain went ever pair'd? What heart alike conceived and dared? What act proved all its thought had been? What will but felt the fleshly screen? We ride and I see her bosom heave. There 's many a crown for who can reach. Ten lines, a statesman's life in each! The flag stuck on a heap of bones, A soldier's doing! what atones? They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones. My riding is better, by their leave.

What does it all mean, poet? Well, Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell What we felt only; you express'd You hold things beautiful the best, And pace them in rhyme so, side by side. 'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then, Have you yourself what 's best for men? Are you—poor, sick, old ere your time— Nearer one whit your own sublime Than we who never have turn'd a rhyme? Sing, riding 's a joy! For me, I ride.

And you, great sculptor—so, you gave A score of years to Art, her slave, And that 's your Venus, whence we turn To yonder girl that fords the burn! You acquiesce, and shall I repine? What, man of music, you grown gray With notes and nothing else to say, Is this your sole praise from a friend, 'Greatly his opera's strains intend, But in music we know how fashions end!' I gave my youth: but we ride, in fine.

Who knows what 's fit for us? Had fate Proposed bliss here should sublimate My being—had I sign'd the bond— Still one must lead some life beyond, Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried. This foot once planted on the goal, This glory-garland round my soul, Could I descry such? Try and test! I sink back shuddering from the quest. Earth being so good, would heaven seem best? Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.

And yet—she has not spoke so long! What if heaven be that, fair and strong At life's best, with our eyes upturn'd Whither life's flower is first discern'd, We, fix'd so, ever should so abide? What if we still ride on, we two With life for ever old yet new, Changed not in kind but in degree, The instant made eternity,— And heaven just prove that I and she Ride, ride together, for ever ride?

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

728. Misconceptions

THIS is a spray the Bird clung to, Making it blossom with pleasure, Ere the high tree-top she sprung to, Fit for her nest and her treasure. O, what a hope beyond measure Was the poor spray's, which the flying feet hung to,— So to be singled out, built in, and sung to!

This is a heart the Queen leant on, Thrill'd in a minute erratic, Ere the true bosom she bent on, Meet for love's regal dalmatic. O, what a fancy ecstatic Was the poor heart's, ere the wanderer went on— Love to be saved for it, proffer'd to, spent on!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

729. Home-thoughts, from Abroad

O, TO be in England Now that April 's there, And whoever wakes in England Sees, some morning, unaware, That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough In England—now!

And after April, when May follows, And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— That 's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, All will be gay when noontide wakes anew The buttercups, the little children's dower —Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!

Robert Browning. 1812-1889

730. Home-thoughts, from the Sea

NOBLY, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; In the dimmest North-east distance dawn'd Gibraltar grand and gray; 'Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?'—say, Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, While Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa.

William Bell Scott. 1812-1890

731. The Which's Ballad

O, I hae come from far away, From a warm land far away, A southern land across the sea, With sailor-lads about the mast, Merry and canny, and kind to me.

And I hae been to yon town To try my luck in yon town; Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too. Right braw we were to pass the gate, Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue.

Mysie smiled wi' miminy mouth, Innocent mouth, miminy mouth; Elspie wore a scarlet gown, Nort's grey eyes were unco' gleg. My Castile comb was like a crown.

We walk'd abreast all up the street, Into the market up the street; Our hair with marigolds was wound, Our bodices with love-knots laced, Our merchandise with tansy bound.

Nort had chickens, I had cocks, Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes,— For a wee groat or a pound; We lost nae time wi' gives and takes.

—Lost nae time, for well we knew, In our sleeves full well we knew, When the gloaming came that night, Duck nor drake, nor hen nor cock Would be found by candle-light.

And when our chaffering all was done, All was paid for, sold and done, We drew a glove on ilka hand, We sweetly curtsied, each to each, And deftly danced a saraband.

The market-lassies look'd and laugh'd, Left their gear, and look'd and laugh'd; They made as they would join the game, But soon their mithers, wild and wud, With whack and screech they stopp'd the same.

Sae loud the tongues o' randies grew, The flytin' and the skirlin' grew, At all the windows in the place, Wi' spoons or knives, wi' needle or awl, Was thrust out every hand and face.

And down each stair they throng'd anon, Gentle, semple, throng'd anon: Souter and tailor, frowsy Nan, The ancient widow young again, Simpering behind her fan.

Without a choice, against their will, Doited, dazed, against their will, The market lassie and her mither, The farmer and his husbandman, Hand in hand dance a' thegither.

Slow at first, but faster soon, Still increasing, wild and fast, Hoods and mantles, hats and hose, Blindly doff'd and cast away, Left them naked, heads and toes.

They would have torn us limb from limb, Dainty limb from dainty limb; But never one of them could win Across the line that I had drawn With bleeding thumb a-widdershin.

But there was Jeff the provost's son, Jeff the provost's only son; There was Father Auld himsel', The Lombard frae the hostelry, And the lawyer Peter Fell.

All goodly men we singled out, Waled them well, and singled out, And drew them by the left hand in; Mysie the priest, and Elspie won The Lombard, Nort the lawyer carle, I mysel' the provost's son.

Then, with cantrip kisses seven, Three times round with kisses seven, Warp'd and woven there spun we Arms and legs and flaming hair, Like a whirlwind on the sea.

Like a wind that sucks the sea, Over and in and on the sea, Good sooth it was a mad delight; And every man of all the four Shut his eyes and laugh'd outright.

Laugh'd as long as they had breath, Laugh'd while they had sense or breath; And close about us coil'd a mist Of gnats and midges, wasps and flies, Like the whirlwind shaft it rist.

Drawn up I was right off my feet, Into the mist and off my feet; And, dancing on each chimney-top, I saw a thousand darling imps Keeping time with skip and hop.

And on the provost's brave ridge-tile, On the provost's grand ridge-tile, The Blackamoor first to master me I saw, I saw that winsome smile, The mouth that did my heart beguile, And spoke the great Word over me, In the land beyond the sea.

I call'd his name, I call'd aloud, Alas! I call'd on him aloud; And then he fill'd his hand with stour, And threw it towards me in the air; My mouse flew out, I lost my pow'r!

My lusty strength, my power were gone; Power was gone, and all was gone. He will not let me love him more! Of bell and whip and horse's tail He cares not if I find a store.

But I am proud if he is fierce! I am as proud as he is fierce; I'll turn about and backward go, If I meet again that Blackamoor, And he'll help us then, for he shall know I seek another paramour.

And we'll gang once more to yon town, Wi' better luck to yon town; We'll walk in silk and cramoisie, And I shall wed the provost's son My lady of the town I'll be!

For I was born a crown'd king's child, Born and nursed a king's child, King o' a land ayont the sea, Where the Blackamoor kiss'd me first, And taught me art and glamourie.

Each one in her wame shall hide Her hairy mouse, her wary mouse, Fed on madwort and agramie,— Wear amber beads between her breasts, And blind-worm's skin about her knee.

The Lombard shall be Elspie's man, Elspie's gowden husband-man; Nort shall take the lawyer's hand; The priest shall swear another vow: We'll dance again the saraband!

miminy] prim, demure. gleg] bright, sharp. wud] mad. randies] viragoes. flytin'] scolding. skirlin'] shrieking. souter] cobbler. doited] mazed. a-widdershin] the wrong way of the sun: or E. to W. through N. waled] chose. cantrip] magic. stour] dust. cramoisie] crimson. ayont] beyond. glamourie] wizardry.

Aubrey De Vere. 1814-1902

732. Serenade

SOFTLY, O midnight Hours! Move softly o'er the bowers Where lies in happy sleep a girl so fair! For ye have power, men say, Our hearts in sleep to sway, And cage cold fancies in a moonlight snare. Round ivory neck and arm Enclasp a separate charm; Hang o'er her poised, but breathe nor sigh nor prayer: Silently ye may smile, But hold your breath the while, And let the wind sweep back your cloudy hair!

Bend down your glittering urns, Ere yet the dawn returns, And star with dew the lawn her feet shall tread; Upon the air rain balm, Bid all the woods be calm, Ambrosial dreams with healthful slumbers wed; That so the Maiden may With smiles your care repay, When from her couch she lifts her golden head; Waking with earliest birds, Ere yet the misty herds Leave warm 'mid the gray grass their dusky bed.

Aubrey De Vere. 1814-1902

733. Sorrow

COUNT each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee; do thou With courtesy receive him; rise and bow; And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave; Then lay before him all thou hast; allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness: Grief should be, Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.

George Fox. 1815-?

734. The County of Mayo FROM THE IRISH OF THOMAS LAVELLE

ON the deck of Patrick Lynch's boat I sat in woful plight, Through my sighing all the weary day and weeping all the night; Were it not that full of sorrow from my people forth I go, By the blessed sun! 'tis royally I'd sing thy praise, Mayo!

When I dwelt at home in plenty, and my gold did much abound, In the company of fair young maids the Spanish ale went round— 'Tis a bitter change from those gay days that now I'm forced to go And must leave my bones in Santa Cruz, far from my own Mayo.

They are alter'd girls in Irrul now; 'tis proud they're grown and high, With their hair-bags and their top-knots, for I pass their buckles by— But it 's little now I heed their airs, for God will have it so, That I must depart for foreign lands and leave my sweet Mayo.

'Tis my grief that Patrick Loughlin is not Earl of Irrul still, And that Brian Duff no longer rules as Lord upon the hill: And that Colonel Hugh McGrady should be lying dead and low, And I sailing, sailing swiftly from the county of Mayo.

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

735. My Lady's Grave

THE linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caress'd, Have left her solitude!

I ween that when the grave's dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne'er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Uncheck'd through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honour's breath, Or pleasure's shade pursue— The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow's source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!

Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound: And murmur, summer streams! There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady's dreams.

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

736. Remembrance

COLD in the earth—and the deep snow piled above thee, Far, far removed, cold in the dreary grave! Have I forgot, my only Love, to love thee, Sever'd at last by Time's all-severing wave?

Now, when alone, do my thoughts no longer hover Over the mountains, on that northern shore, Resting their wings where heath and fern-leaves cover Thy noble heart for ever, ever more?

Cold in the earth—and fifteen wild Decembers From those brown hills have melted into spring: Faithful, indeed, is the spirit that remembers After such years of change and suffering!

Sweet Love of youth, forgive, if I forget thee, While the world's tide is bearing me along; Other desires and other hopes beset me, Hopes which obscure, but cannot do thee wrong!

No later light has lighten'd up my heaven, No second morn has ever shone for me; All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given, All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee.

But when the days of golden dreams had perish'd, And even Despair was powerless to destroy; Then did I learn how existence could be cherish'd, Strengthen'd and fed without the aid of joy.

Then did I check the tears of useless passion— Wean'd my young soul from yearning after thine; Sternly denied its burning wish to hasten Down to that tomb already more than mine.

And, even yet, I dare not let it languish, Dare not indulge in memory's rapturous pain; Once drinking deep of that divinest anguish, How could I seek the empty world again?

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

737. The Prisoner

STILL let my tyrants know, I am not doom'd to wear Year after year in gloom and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty.

He comes with Western winds, with evening's wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars: Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire, And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire.

Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears: When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thunder-storm.

But first, a hush of peace—a soundless calm descends; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends. Mute music soothes my breast—unutter'd harmony That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me.

Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals; My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels; Its wings are almost free—its home, its harbour found, Measuring the gulf, it stoops, and dares the final bound.

O dreadful is the check—intense the agony— When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb—the brain to think again— The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain.

Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine, If it but herald Death, the vision is divine.

Emily Bronte. 1818-1848

738. Last Lines

NO coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear.

O God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life—that in me has rest, As I—undying Life—have power in Thee!

Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as wither'd weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,

To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by Thine infinity; So surely anchor'd on The steadfast rock of immortality.

With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears.

Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes cease to be, And Thou were left alone, Every existence would exist in Thee.

There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou—Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed.

Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875

739. Airly Beacon

AIRLY Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the pleasant sight to see Shires and towns from Airly Beacon, While my love climb'd up to me!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the happy hours we lay Deep in fern on Airly Beacon, Courting through the summer's day!

Airly Beacon, Airly Beacon; O the weary haunt for me, All alone on Airly Beacon, With his baby on my knee!

Charles Kingsley. 1819-1875

740. The Sands of Dee

'O MARY, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.' The western wind was wild and dark with foam, And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land: And never home came she.

'O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair— A tress of golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair, Above the nets at sea?' Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee.

They row'd her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea. But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee.

Arthur Hugh Clough. 1819-1861

741. Say not the Struggle Naught availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

Walt Whitman. 1819-1892

742. The Imprisoned Soul

AT the last, tenderly, From the walls of the powerful, fortress'd house, From the clasp of the knitted locks—from the keep of the well-closed doors, Let me be wafted.

Let me glide noiselessly forth; With the key of softness unlock the locks—with a whisper Set ope the doors, O soul!

Tenderly! be not impatient! (Strong is your hold, O mortal flesh! Strong is your hold, O love!)

Walt Whitman. 1819-1892

743. O Captain! My Captain!

O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red! Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths—for you the shores crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here, Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead.

John Ruskin. 1819-1900

744. Trust Thou Thy Love

TRUST thou thy Love: if she be proud, is she not sweet? Trust thou thy Love: if she be mute, is she not pure? Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at her feet; Fail, Sun and Breath!—yet, for thy peace, She shall endure.

Ebenezer Jones. 1820-1860

745. When the World is burning

WHEN the world is burning, Fired within, yet turning Round with face unscathed; Ere fierce flames, uprushing, O'er all lands leap, crushing, Till earth fall, fire-swathed; Up amidst the meadows, Gently through the shadows, Gentle flames will glide, Small, and blue, and golden. Though by bard beholden, When in calm dreams folden,— Calm his dreams will bide.

Where the dance is sweeping, Through the greensward peeping, Shall the soft lights start; Laughing maids, unstaying, Deeming it trick-playing, High their robes upswaying, O'er the lights shall dart; And the woodland haunter Shall not cease to saunter When, far down some glade, Of the great world's burning, One soft flame upturning Seems, to his discerning, Crocus in the shade.

Frederick Locker-Lampson. 1821-1895

746. At Her Window

BEATING Heart! we come again Where my Love reposes; This is Mabel's window-pane; These are Mabel's roses.

Is she nested? Does she kneel In the twilight stilly, Lily clad from throat to heel, She, my virgin Lily?

Soon the wan, the wistful stars, Fading, will forsake her; Elves of light, on beamy bars, Whisper then, and wake her.

Let this friendly pebble plead At her flowery grating; If she hear me will she heed? Mabel, I am waiting.

Mabel will be deck'd anon, Zoned in bride's apparel; Happy zone! O hark to yon Passion-shaken carol!

Sing thy song, thou tranced thrush, Pipe thy best, thy clearest;— Hush, her lattice moves, O hush— Dearest Mabel!—dearest…

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

747. The Forsaken Merman

COME, dear children, let us away; Down and away below. Now my brothers call from the bay; Now the great winds shoreward blow; Now the salt tides seaward flow; Now the wild white horses play, Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. Children dear, let us away. This way, this way!

Call her once before you go. Call once yet. In a voice that she will know: 'Margaret! Margaret!' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; Children's voices, wild with pain. Surely she will come again. Call her once and come away. This way, this way! 'Mother dear, we cannot stay.' The wild white horses foam and fret. Margaret! Margaret!

Come, dear children, come away down. Call no more. One last look at the white-wall'd town, And the little grey church on the windy shore. Then come down. She will not come though you call all day. Come away, come away. Children dear, was it yesterday We heard the sweet bells over the bay? In the caverns where we lay, Through the surf and through the swell, The far-off sound of a silver bell? Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, Where the winds are all asleep; Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; Where the salt weed sways in the stream; Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, Dry their mail, and bask in the brine; Where great whales come sailing by, Sail and sail, with unshut eye, Round the world for ever and aye? When did music come this way? Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday (Call yet once) that she went away? Once she sate with you and me, On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, And the youngest sate on her knee. She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, When down swung the sound of the far-off bell. She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea. She said, 'I must go, for my kinsfolk pray In the little grey church on the shore to-day. 'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me! And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.' I said, 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves. Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.' She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone? 'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say. Come,' I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. We went up the beach, by the sandy down Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town. Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, To the little grey church on the windy hill. From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold-blowing airs. We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. She sate by the pillar; we saw her dear: 'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. Dear heart,' I said, 'we are long alone. The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.' But, ah! she gave me never a look, For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. Came away, children, call no more. Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down; Down to the depths of the sea. She sits at her wheel in the humming town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy. For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well. For the wheel where I spun, And the blessed light of the sun.' And so she sings her fill, Singing most joyfully, Till the shuttle falls from her hand, And the whizzing wheel stands still. She steals to the window, and looks at the sand; And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away, children. Come children, come down. The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing, 'Here came a mortal, But faithless was she: And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.'

But, children, at midnight, When soft the winds blow; When clear falls the moonlight; When spring-tides are low: When sweet airs come seaward From heaths starr'd with broom; And high rocks throw mildly On the blanch'd sands a gloom: Up the still, glistening beaches, Up the creeks we will hie; Over banks of bright seaweed The ebb-tide leaves dry. We will gaze, from the sand-hills, At the white, sleeping town; At the church on the hill-side— And then come back down. Singing, 'There dwells a loved one, But cruel is she. She left lonely for ever The kings of the sea.'

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

748. The Song of Callicles

THROUGH the black, rushing smoke-bursts, Thick breaks the red flame. All Etna heaves fiercely Her forest-clothed frame.

Not here, O Apollo! Are haunts meet for thee. But, where Helicon breaks down In cliff to the sea.

Where the moon-silver'd inlets Send far their light voice Up the still vale of Thisbe, O speed, and rejoice!

On the sward at the cliff-top, Lie strewn the white flocks; On the cliff-side, the pigeons Roost deep in the rocks.

In the moonlight the shepherds, Soft lull'd by the rills, Lie wrapt in their blankets, Asleep on the hills.

—What forms are these coming So white through the gloom? What garments out-glistening The gold-flower'd broom?

What sweet-breathing Presence Out-perfumes the thyme? What voices enrapture The night's balmy prime?—

'Tis Apollo comes leading His choir, The Nine. —The Leader is fairest, But all are divine.

They are lost in the hollows. They stream up again. What seeks on this mountain The glorified train?—

They bathe on this mountain, In the spring by their road. Then on to Olympus, Their endless abode.

—Whose praise do they mention: Of what is it told?— What will be for ever. What was from of old.

First hymn they the Father Of all things: and then, The rest of Immortals, The action of men.

The Day in his hotness, The strife with the palm; The Night in her silence, The Stars in their calm.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

749. To Marguerite

YES: in the sea of life enisled, With echoing straits between us thrown. Dotting the shoreless watery wild, We mortal millions live alone. The islands feel the enclasping flow, And then their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their hollows lights, And they are swept by balms of spring, And in their glens, on starry nights, The nightingales divinely sing; And lovely notes, from shore to shore, Across the sounds and channels pour;

O then a longing like despair Is to their farthest caverns sent! For surely once, they feel, we were Parts of a single continent. Now round us spreads the watery plain— O might our marges meet again!

Who order'd that their longing's fire Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? Who renders vain their deep desire?— A God, a God their severance ruled; And bade betwixt their shores to be The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

750. Requiescat

STREW on her roses, roses, And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes: Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required: She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired, And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning, In mazes of heat and sound. But for peace her soul was yearning, And now peace laps her round.

Her cabin'd, ample Spirit, It flutter'd and fail'd for breath. To-night it doth inherit The vasty hall of Death.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

751. The Scholar-Gipsy

GO, for they call you, Shepherd, from the hill; Go, Shepherd, and untie the wattled cotes: No longer leave thy wistful flock unfed, Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their throats, Nor the cropp'd grasses shoot another head. But when the fields are still, And the tired men and dogs all gone to rest, And only the white sheep are sometimes seen Cross and recross the strips of moon-blanch'd green; Come Shepherd, and again begin the quest.

Here, where the reaper was at work of late, In this high field's dark corner, where he leaves His coat, his basket, and his earthen cruise, And in the sun all morning binds the sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use; Here will I sit and wait, While to my ear from uplands far away The bleating of the folded flocks is borne, With distant cries of reapers in the corn— All the live murmur of a summer's day.

Screen'd is this nook o'er the high, half-reap'd field, And here till sundown, Shepherd, will I be. Through the thick corn the scarlet poppies peep, And round green roots and yellowing stalks I see Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils creep: And air-swept lindens yield Their scent, and rustle down their perfumed showers Of bloom on the bent grass where I am laid, And bower me from the August sun with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers:

And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's book— Come, let me read the oft-read tale again: The story of that Oxford scholar poor, Of pregnant parts and quick inventive brain, Who, tired of knocking at Preferment's door, One summer morn forsook His friends, and went to learn the Gipsy lore, And roam'd the world with that wild brotherhood, And came, as most men deem'd, to little good, But came to Oxford and his friends no more.

But once, years after, in the country lanes, Two scholars, whom at college erst he knew, Met him, and of his way of life inquired. Whereat he answer'd that the Gipsy crew, His mates, had arts to rule as they desired The workings of men's brains; And they can bind them to what thoughts they will: 'And I,' he said, 'the secret of their art, When fully learn'd, will to the world impart: But it needs Heaven-sent moments for this skill!'

This said, he left them, and return'd no more, But rumours hung about the country-side, That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray, Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of grey, The same the Gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berkshire moors, On the warm ingle-bench, the smock-frock'd boors Had found him seated at their entering,

But 'mid their drink and clatter, he would fly: And I myself seem half to know thy looks, And put the shepherds, Wanderer, on thy trace; And boys who in lone wheatfields scare the rooks I ask if thou hast pass'd their quiet place; Or in my boat I lie Moor'd to the cool bank in the summer heats, 'Mid wide grass meadows which the sunshine fills, And watch the warm green-muffled Cumnor hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.

For most, I know, thou lov'st retired ground. Thee, at the ferry, Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer nights, have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bablock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet, As the slow punt swings round: And leaning backwards in a pensive dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of flowers Pluck'd in shy fields and distant Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit stream:

And then they land, and thou art seen no more. Maidens who from the distant hamlets come To dance around the Fyfield elm in May, Oft through the darkening fields have seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way. Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers—the frail-leaf'd, white anemone— Dark bluebells drench'd with dews of summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted leaves— But none has words she can report of thee.

And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay-time 's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine flames, Men who through those wide fields of breezy grass Where black-wing'd swallows haunt the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandon'd lasher pass, Have often pass'd thee near Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown: Mark'd thine outlandish garb, thy figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft abstracted air; But, when they came from bathing, thou wert gone.

At some lone homestead in the Cumnor hills, Where at her open door the housewife darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a gate To watch the threshers in the mossy barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late For cresses from the rills, Have known thee watching, all an April day, The springing pastures and the feeding kine; And mark'd thee, when the stars come out and shine, Through the long dewy grass move slow away.

In autumn, on the skirts of Bagley Wood, Where most the Gipsies by the turf-edged way Pitch their smoked tents, and every bush you see With scarlet patches tagg'd and shreds of gray, Above the forest-ground call'd Thessaly— The blackbird picking food Sees thee, nor stops his meal, nor fears at all; So often has he known thee past him stray Rapt, twirling in thy hand a wither'd spray, And waiting for the spark from Heaven to fall.

And once, in winter, on the causeway chill Where home through flooded fields foot-travellers go, Have I not pass'd thee on the wooden bridge Wrapt in thy cloak and battling with the snow, Thy face towards Hinksey and its wintry ridge? And thou hast climb'd the hill And gain'd the white brow of the Cumnor range; Turn'd once to watch, while thick the snowflakes fall, The line of festal light in Christ Church hall— Then sought thy straw in some sequester'd grange.

But what—I dream! Two hundred years are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale inscribe That thou wert wander'd from the studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a Gipsy tribe: And thou from earth art gone Long since and in some quiet churchyard laid; Some country nook, where o'er thy unknown grave Tall grasses and white flowering nettles wave— Under a dark red-fruited yew-tree's shade.

—No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of hours. For what wears out the life of mortal men? 'Tis that from change to change their being rolls: 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Exhaust the energy of strongest souls, And numb the elastic powers. Till having used our nerves with bliss and teen, And tired upon a thousand schemes our wit, To the just-pausing Genius we remit Our worn-out life, and are—what we have been.

Thou hast not lived, why shouldst thou perish, so? Thou hadst one aim, one business, one desire: Else wert thou long since number'd with the dead— Else hadst thou spent, like other men, thy fire. The generations of thy peers are fled, And we ourselves shall go; But thou possessest an immortal lot, And we imagine thee exempt from age And living as thou liv'st on Glanvil's page, Because thou hadst—what we, alas, have not!

For early didst thou leave the world, with powers Fresh, undiverted to the world without, Firm to their mark, not spent on other things; Free from the sick fatigue, the languid doubt, Which much to have tried, in much been baffled, brings. O Life unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope, Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives, And each half lives a hundred different lives; Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, in hope.

Thou waitest for the spark from Heaven: and we, Vague half-believers of our casual creeds, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly will'd, Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds, Whose weak resolves never have been fulfill'd; For whom each year we see Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new; Who hesitate and falter life away, And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day— Ah, do not we, Wanderer, await it too?

Yes, we await it, but it still delays, And then we suffer; and amongst us One, Who most has suffer'd, takes dejectedly His seat upon the intellectual throne; And all his store of sad experience he Lays bare of wretched days; Tells us his misery's birth and growth and signs, And how the dying spark of hope was fed, And how the breast was soothed, and how the head, And all his hourly varied anodynes.

This for our wisest: and we others pine, And wish the long unhappy dream would end, And waive all claim to bliss, and try to bear, With close-lipp'd Patience for our only friend, Sad Patience, too near neighbour to Despair: But none has hope like thine. Thou through the fields and through the woods dost stray, Roaming the country-side, a truant boy, Nursing thy project in unclouded joy, And every doubt long blown by time away.

O born in days when wits were fresh and clear, And life ran gaily as the sparkling Thames; Before this strange disease of modern life, With its sick hurry, its divided aims, Its heads o'ertax'd, its palsied hearts, was rife— Fly hence, our contact fear! Still fly, plunge deeper in the bowering wood! Averse, as Dido did with gesture stern From her false friend's approach in Hades turn, Wave us away, and keep thy solitude.

Still nursing the unconquerable hope, Still clutching the inviolable shade, With a free onward impulse brushing through, By night, the silver'd branches of the glade— Far on the forest-skirts, where none pursue, On some mild pastoral slope Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales, Freshen they flowers, as in former years, With dew, or listen with enchanted ears, From the dark dingles, to the nightingales.

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly! For strong the infection of our mental strife, Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest; And we should win thee from they own fair life, Like us distracted, and like us unblest. Soon, soon thy cheer would die, Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfix'd they powers, And they clear aims be cross and shifting made: And then thy glad perennial youth would fade, Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles! —As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea, Descried at sunrise an emerging prow Lifting the cool-hair'd creepers stealthily, The fringes of a southward-facing brow Among the Aegean isles; And saw the merry Grecian coaster come, Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine, Green bursting figs, and tunnies steep'd in brine; And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

The young light-hearted Masters of the waves; And snatch'd his rudder, and shook out more sail, And day and night held on indignantly O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale, Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily, To where the Atlantic raves Outside the Western Straits, and unbent sails There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam, Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come; And on the beach undid his corded bales.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

752. Philomela

HARK! ah, the Nightingale! The tawny-throated! Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a burst! What triumph! hark—what pain!

O Wanderer from a Grecian shore, Still, after many years, in distant lands, Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain That wild, unquench'd, deep-sunken, old-world pain— Say, will it never heal? And can this fragrant lawn With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, And moonshine, and the dew, To thy rack'd heart and brain Afford no balm?

Dost thou to-night behold Here, through the moonlight on this English grass, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian wild? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb Sister's shame? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor Fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make resound With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale? Listen, Eugenia— How thick the bursts come crowding through the leaves! Again—thou hearest! Eternal Passion! Eternal Pain!

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

753. Shakespeare

OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the heaven of heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality; And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst walk on earth unguess'd at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.

Matthew Arnold. 1822-1888

754. From the Hymn of Empedocles

IS it so small a thing To have enjoy'd the sun, To have lived light in the spring, To have loved, to have thought, to have done; To have advanced true friends, and beat down baffling foes;

That we must feign a bliss Of doubtful future date, And while we dream on this Lose all our present state, And relegate to worlds yet distant our repose?

Not much, I know, you prize What pleasures may be had, Who look on life with eyes Estranged, like mine, and sad: And yet the village churl feels the truth more than you;

Who 's loth to leave this life Which to him little yields: His hard-task'd sunburnt wife, His often-labour'd fields; The boors with whom he talk'd, the country spots he knew.

But thou, because thou hear'st Men scoff at Heaven and Fate; Because the gods thou fear'st Fail to make blest thy state, Tremblest, and wilt not dare to trust the joys there are.

I say, Fear not! life still Leaves human effort scope. But, since life teems with ill, Nurse no extravagant hope. Because thou must not dream, thou need'st not then despair.

William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880

755. The Flowers

WHEN Love arose in heart and deed To wake the world to greater joy, 'What can she give me now?' said Greed, Who thought to win some costly toy.

He rose, he ran, he stoop'd, he clutch'd; And soon the Flowers, that Love let fall, In Greed's hot grasp were fray'd and smutch'd, And Greed said, 'Flowers! Can this be all?'

He flung them down and went his way, He cared no jot for thyme or rose; But boys and girls came out to play, And some took these and some took those—

Red, blue, and white, and green and gold; And at their touch the dew return'd, And all the bloom a thousandfold— So red, so ripe, the roses burn'd!

William Brighty Rands. 1823-1880

756. The Thought

INTO the skies, one summer's day, I sent a little Thought away; Up to where, in the blue round, The sun sat shining without sound.

Then my Thought came back to me.— Little Thought, what did you see In the regions whence you come? And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.

But she breathed of what was there, In the pure bright upper air; And, because my Thought so shone, I knew she had been shone upon.

Next, by night a Thought I sent Up into the firmament; When the eager stars were out, And the still moon shone about.

And my Thought went past the moon In between the stars, but soon Held her breath and durst not stir, For the fear that covered her; Then she thought, in this demur:

'Dare I look beneath the shade, Into where the worlds are made; Where the suns and stars are wrought? Shall I meet another Thought?

'Will that other Thought have wings? Shall I meet strange, heavenly things? Thought of Thoughts, and Light of Lights, Breath of Breaths, and Night of Nights?'

Then my Thought began to hark In the illuminated dark, Till the silence, over, under, Made her heart beat more than thunder.

And my Thought, came trembling back, But with something on her track, And with something at her side; Nor till she has lived and died, Lived and died, and lived again, Will that awful thing seem plain.

William Philpot. 1823-1889

757. Maritae Suae

I

OF all the flowers rising now, Thou only saw'st the head Of that unopen'd drop of snow I placed beside thy bed.

In all the blooms that blow so fast, Thou hast no further part, Save those the hour I saw thee last, I laid above thy heart.

Two snowdrops for our boy and girl, A primrose blown for me, Wreathed with one often-play'd-with curl From each bright head for thee.

And so I graced thee for thy grave, And made these tokens fast With that old silver heart I gave, My first gift—and my last.

II

I dream'd, her babe upon her breast, Here she might lie and calmly rest Her happy eyes on that far hill That backs the landscape fresh and still.

I hoped her thoughts would thrid the boughs Where careless birds on love carouse, And gaze those apple-blossoms through To revel in the boundless blue.

But now her faculty of sight Is elder sister to the light, And travels free and unconfined Through dense and rare, through form and mind.

Or else her life to be complete Hath found new channels full and meet— Then, O, what eyes are leaning o'er, If fairer than they were before!

William (Johnson) Cory. 1823-1892

758. Mimnermus in Church

YOU promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still; Your chilly stars I can forgo, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To sexless souls, ideal quires, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remember'd tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But O, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.