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Wherein the younger Charles abode

Till all the paths were dim, And far below the Roundhead rode,

And humm'd a surly hymn.

Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in

Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect

end. Will some one say, Then why not ill

for good ? Why took ye not your pastime? To that

LOVE AND DUTY.

man

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel ? Streaming eyes and break

ing hearts? Or all the same as if he had not been ? Not so. Shall Error in the round of

time Still father Truth? O shall the braggart

shout For some blind glimpse of freedom work

itself Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law System and empire? Sin itself be found The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ? And only he, this wonder, dead, become Mere highway dust? or year by year alone Sit brooding in the ruins of a life, Nightmare of youth, the spectre of him

self? If this were thus, if this, indeed, were

My work shall answer, since I knew the

right And did it ; for a man is not as God, But then most Godlike being most a man. -So let me think 'tis well for thee and

meIll-fated that I am, what lot is mine Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart

so slow To feel it ! For how hard it seem'd to

me, When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears

would dwell One earnest, earnest moment upon mine, Then not to dare to see! when thy low

voice, Faltering, would break its syllables, to

keep My own full-tuned, -hold passion in a

leash, And not leap forth and fall about thy neck, And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief !) Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that

weigh'd Upon my brain, my senses and my soul ! For Love himself took part against

himself To warn us off, and Duty loved of LoveO this world's curse, - beloved but hated

- came Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and

mine, And crying, “Who is this ? behold thy

bride,' She push'd me from thee.

all,

Better the narrow brain, the stony heart, The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless

days, The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy! likewise

thou Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy

years The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will

bring The drooping flower of knowledge

changed to fruit

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If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to theseNo, not to thee, but to thyself in me: Hard is my doom and thine: thou

knowest it all. Could Love part thus ? was it not well

to speak, To have spoken once? It could not but

be well. The slow sweet hours that bring us all

things good, The slow sad hours that bring us all

things ill, And all good things from evil, brought

the night In which we sat together and alone, And to the want, that hollow'd all the

heart, Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, That burn'd upon its object thro' such

tears As flow but once a life.

The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and

died. Then follow'd counsel, comfort, and the

And bade adieu for ever.

Live-yet liveShall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing

all Life needs for life is possible to will-Live happy; tend thy flowers; be tended

by My blessing! Should my Shadow cross

thy thoughts Too sadly for their peace, remand it thou For calmer hours to Memory's darkest

hold, If not to be forgotten-not at onceNot all forgotten. Should it cross thy

dreams, O might it come like one that looks

content, With quiet eyes unfaithful to the truth, And point thee forward to a distant light, Or seem to lift a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freër, till thou wake

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words

Then when the first low matin-chirp hath

grown Full quire, and morning driv'n her plow

of pearl Far furrowing into light the mounded rack, Beyond the fair green field and eastern sea.

That make a man feel strong in speaking

truth; Till now the dark was worn, and overhead The lights of sunset and of sunrise mix’d In that brief night; the summer night,

that paused Among her stars to hear us; stars that

hung Love-charm'd to listen: all the wheels of

Time Spun round in station, but the end had

come. O then like those, who clench their

THE GOLDEN YEAR.

Well, you shall have that song which

Leonard wrote: It was last summer on a tour in Wales: Old James was with me : we that day had Up Snowdon ; and I wish'd for Leonard

nerves to rush

been

there, And found him in Llanberis : then we

crost Between the lakes, and clamber'd half

way up The counter side ; and that same song of

his He told me ; for I banter'd him, and

swore They said he lived shut up within himself, A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days, That, setting the how much before the

Yet seas, that daily gain upon the shore, Have ebb and flow conditioning their

march, And slow and sure comes up the golden

year. • When wealth no more shall rest in

mounded heaps, But smit with freër light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands, And light shall spread, and man be liker

man

how,

Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech,

"Give, Cram us with all,' but count not me the

herd ! To which «They call me what they

will,' he said : But I was born too late : the fair new

forms, That float about the threshold of an age, Like truths of Science waiting to be

caughtCatch me who can, and make the catcher

crown'dAre taken by the forelock. Let it be. But if you care indeed to listen, hear These measured words, my work of

yestermorn. “We sleep and wake and sleep, but

all things move ; The Sun flies forward to his brother Sun ; The dark Earth follows wheel'd in her

Thro' all the season of the golden year. "Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be

wrens ? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle. Happy days Roll onward, leading up the golden year. Fly, happy happy sails and bear the

Press; Fly happy with the mission of the Cross ; Knit land to land, and blowing haven

ward With silks, and fruits, and spices, clear of

toll, Enrich the markets of the golden year. • But we grow old. Ah! when shall

all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?' Thus far he flow'd, and ended; where

upon “Ah, folly !' in mimic cadence answer'd

James* Ah, folly ! for it lies so far away, Not in our time, nor in our children's

time, 'Tis like the second world to us that live ; 'Twere all as one to fix our hopes on

Heaven
As on this vision of the golden year.'

ellipse ;

And human things returning on them

selves Move onward, leading up the golden year. "Ah, tho' the times, when some new

thought can bud, Are but as poets' seasons when they

flower,

With that he struck his staff against

the rocks And broke it,- James,-you know him,

-old, but full Of force and choler, and firm upon his

feet, And like an oaken stock in winter

woods, O'erflourish'd with the hoary clematis : Then added, all in heat :

• What stuff is this ! Old writers push'd the happy season

back, The more fools they,—we forward :

dreamers both: You most, that in an age, when every

hour Must sweat her sixty minutes to the

death, Live on, God love us, as if the seedsman,

rapt L'pon the teeming harvest, should not

plunge His hand into the bag : but well I know That unto him who works, and feels he

works, This same grand year is ever at the

doors.' He spoke ; and, high above, I heard

them blast The steep slate-quarry, and the great echo

flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to

bluff.

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and

know not me. I cannot rest from travel : I will drink Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with

those That loved me, and alone ; on shore, and

when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea : I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of

men And manners, climates, councils, govern

ments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them

all; And drunk delight of battle with my

peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met ; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravelld world, whose

margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use ! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled

on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains : but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something

more,

ULYSSES.

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren

crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and

dole Unequal laws unto a savage race,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard

myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human

thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the

isle

108

ENGLAND AND AMERICA IN 1782.

It may be we shall touch the Happy

Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we

knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides ; and

tho' We are not now that strength which in

old days Moved earth and heaven ; that which we

are, we are ; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong

in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to

yield.

ENGLAND AND AMERICA

IN 1782.

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make

mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the

sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work,

I mine.
There lies the port : the vessel puffs

her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My

mariners, Souls that have toild, and wrought, and

thought with me That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and

opposed Free hearts, free foreheads-you and I

are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; Death closes all : but something ere the

end, Some work of noble note, may yet be

done, Not unbecoming men that strove with

Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the

rocks : The long day wanes : the slow moon

climbs : the deep Moans round with many voices. Come,

my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose

holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down :

O THOU, that sendest out the man

To rule by land and sea, Strong mother of a Lion-line, Be proud of those strong sons of thine

Who wrench'd their rights from thee!

What wonder, if in noble heat

Those men thine arms withstood, Retaught the lesson thou hadst taught, And in thy spirit with thee fought

Who sprang from English blood !

But Thou rejoice with liberal joy,

Lift up thy rocky face, And shatter, when the storms are black, In many a streaming torrent back,

The seas that shock thy base!

Whatever harmonies of law

The growing world assume,
Thy work is thine–The single note
From that deep chord which Hampden

smote
Will vibrate to the doom.

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