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And he struck me, madman, over the face,
woe ; For front to front in an hour we stood, And a million horrible bellowing echoes
broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the
wood, And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christ
less code, That must have life for a blow. Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow. Was it he lay there with a fading eye? • The fault was mine,' he whisper'd, 'fly!' Then glided out of the joyous wood The ghastly Wraith of one that I know; And there rang on a sudden a passionate
cry, A cry for a brother's blood : It will ring in my heart and my ears, till
I die, till I die.
• 1. 'THE fault was mine, the fault was
mine'Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still, Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the
hill ?It is this guilty hand ! And there rises ever a passionate cry From underneath in the darkening landWhat is it, that has been done? O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky, The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising
The fires of Hell and of Hate ;
word, When her brother ran in his rage to the
gate, He came with the babe-faced lord ; Heap'd on her terms of disgrace, And while she wept, and I strove to be
cool, He fiercely gave me the lie, Till I with as fierce an anger spoke,
Is it gone? my pulses beat-
gentle rain, When they should burst and drown with
deluging storms The feeble vassals of wine and anger and
lust, The little hearts that know not how to
forgive : : Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold
Thee just, Strike dead the whole weak race of veno
That sting each other here in the dust ; We are not worthy to live.
A disease, a hard mechanic ghost
Back from the Breton coast,
VII. For years, a measureless ill, For years, for ever, to partBut she, she would love me still ; And as long, O God, as she Have a grain of love for me, So long, no doubt, no doubt, Shall I nurse in my dark heart, However weary, a spark of will Not to be trampled out.
IX. Who knows if he be dead ? Whether I need have fled ? Am I guilty of blood ? However this may be, Comfort her, comfort her, all things good, While I am over the sea ! Let me and my passionate love go by, But speak to her all things holy and high, Whatever happen to me! Me and my harmful love go by ; But come to her waking, find her asleep, Powers of the height, Powers of the deep, And comfort her tho' I die.
It leads me forth at evening,
III. Courage, poor heart of stone ! I will not ask thee why Thou canst not understand That thou art left for ever alone : Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.-Or if I ask thee why, Care not thou to reply : She is but dead, and the time is at hand When thou shalt more than die.
Half the night I waste in sighs,
VI. 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that cling To the turrets and the walls ; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet ; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings ; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.
O that 'twere possible
VII. Do I hear her sing as of old, My bird with the shining head, My own dove with the tender eye? But there rings on a sudden a passionate
cry, There is some one dying or dead,
Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, And the yellow vapours choke The great city sounding wide ; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide.
x. Thro' the hubbub of the market I steal, a wasted frame, It crosses here, it crosses there, Thro' all that crowd confused and loud, The shadow still the same; And on my heavy eyelids My anguish hangs like shame.
Dead, long dead,
feet, Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying, Clamour and rumble, and ringing and
clatter, And here beneath it is all as bad, For I thought the dead had peace, but it
is not so ; To have no peace in the grave, is that
Wretchedest age, since Time began,
that are gone, Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was
read; It is that which makes us loud in the
world of the dead; There is none that does his work, not
one; A touch of their office might have sufficed, But the churchmen fain would kill their
church, As the churches have killd their Christ.
Not that gray old wolf, for he came not
back From the wilderness, full of wolves, where
he used to lie; He has gather'd the bones for his o'er.
grown whelp to crack ; Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.
VI. Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat; I know not whether he came in the
Hanover ship, But I know that he lies and listens mute In an ancient mansion's crannies and
holes : Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it, Except that now we poison our babes,
poor souls ! It is all used up for that.
See, there is one of us sobbing,
head, And wheedle a world that loves him not For it is but a world of the dead.
Tell him now : she is standing here at my
head; Not beautiful now, not even kind ; He may take her now; for she never
speaks her mind, But is ever the one thing silent here. She is not of us, as I divine ; She comes from another stiller world of
the dead, Stiller, not fairer than mine.
IV. Nothing but idiot gabble ! For the prophecy given of old And then not understood, Has come to pass as foretold ; Not let any man think for the public good, But babble, merely for babble. For I never whisper'd a private affair Within the hearing of cat or mouse, No, not to myself in the closet alone, But I heard it shouted at once from the
top of the house ; Everything came to be known Who told him we were there?
But I know where a garden grows,