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And, moved through life of lower phase,
Result in man, be born and think,
And act and love, a closer link Betwixt us and the crowning race
Of those that, eye to eye, shall look
On knowledge; under whose command
Is Earth and Earth's, and in their hand Is Nature like an open book ; No longer half-akin to brute,
For all we thought and loved and did,
And hoped, and suffered, is but seed Of what in them is flower and fruit;
Whereof the man, that with me trod
This planet, was a noble type,
Appearing ere the times were ripe, That friend of mine who lives in God, That God, which ever lives and loves,
One God, one law, one element,
And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves.
I HATE the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, i Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood
red heath, so The red-ribb'd ledges drip with a silent horror of
blood, And Echo there, whatever is ask'd her, answers
For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was
found, His who had given me life - O father! O God!
was it well ? — Mangled, and flatten’d, and crush’d, and dinted into
the ground: There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he
Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast
speculation had fail'd, And ever he mutter'd and madden'd, and ever
wann'd with despair, And out he walk'd when the wind like a broken
worldling wail'd, And the flying gold of the ruin'd woodlands drove
thro’ the air.
I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were
stirrid By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a
whisper'd fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on
my heart as I heard The shrill-edged shriek of a mother divide the shuddering night.
5. Villany somewhere ! whose ? One says, we are
villains all. Not he: his honest fame should at least by me be
maintain’d: But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and
the Hall, Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us
flaccid and drain’d.
Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace ? we
have made them a curse, Pick pockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its
own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better
or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his
own hearthstone ?
But these are the days of advance, the works of
the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a trades
man's ware or his word ? Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that
of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the
Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age-why not? I have neither
hope nor trust; May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as
a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.
9. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days
gone by, When the poor are hovell’d and hustled together,
each sex, like swine, When only the ledger lives, and when only not all
men lie; Peace in her vineyard—yes !—but a company
forges the wine.
And the vitriol madness Alushes up in the ruffian’s
head, Till the filthy by-lane rings to the yell of the
trampled wife, While chalk and alum and plaster are sold to the
poor for bread, And the spirit of murder works in the very means
11. And Sleep must lie down arm’d, for the villanous
centre-bits Grind on the wakeful ear in the hush of the moon
less nights, While another is cheating the sick of a few last
gasps, as he sits To pestle a poison'd poison behind his crimson
When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a
burial fee, And Timour-Mammon grins on a pile of children's
bones, Is it peace or war? better, war! loud war by land
and by sea, War with a thousand battles, and shaking a hun
For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round
by the hill, And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three
decker out of the foam, That the smooth-faced snub-nosed rogue would
leap from his counter and till, And strike, if he could, were it but with his cheat
ing yard-wand, home.
What! am I raging alone as my father raged in
his mood ? Must I too creep to the hollow and dash myself
down and die Rather than hold by the law that I made, never
more to brood On a horror of shatter'd limbs and a wretched
Would there be sorrow for me ? there was love in
the passionate shriek, Love for the silent thing that had made false haste
to the graveWrapt in a cloak, as I saw him, and thought he
would rise and speak And rave at the lie and the liar, ah God, as he
used to rave.