NOTHING WILL DIE

One after another the white clouds are fleeting;

flowing Under my eye?

When will the wind be aweary of

Never, O, never, nothing will die;
The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
The heart beats,
Nothing will die.

Nothing will die;

All things will change
Thro' eternity.

"T is the world's winter;
Autumn and summer
Are gone long ago;
Earth is dry to the centre,
But spring, a new comer,
A spring rich and strange,
Shall make the winds blow
Round and round,

Thro' and thro',

Here and there,

Till the air

And the ground

Shall be fill'd with life anew.

LEONINE ELEGIACS

LOW-FLOWING breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm'd in the gloaming;

Thoro' the black-stemm'd pines only the far river shines.

Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly; Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos; Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly:

Over the pools in the burn watergnats murmur and mourn. Sadly the far kine loweth; the glim

mering water outfloweth ; Twin peaks shadow'd with pine slope to the dark hyaline. Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad Throbbing in mild unrest holds him beneath in her breast. The ancient poetess singeth that Hesperus all things bringeth, Smoothing the wearied mind: bring me my love, Rosalind. Thou comest morning or even; she cometh not morning or even. False-eyed Hesper, unkind, where is my sweet Rosalind ?

40

50

Thrice happy state again to be
The trustful infant on the knee,
Who lets his rosy fingers play
About his mother's neck, and knows
Nothing beyond his mother's eyes!
They comfort him by night and day;
They light his little life alway;
He hath no thought of coming woes;
He hath no care of life or death;
Scarce outward signs of joy arise,
Because the Spirit of happiness
And perfect rest so inward is ;
And loveth so his innocent heart,
Her temple and her place of birth,
Where she would ever wish to dwell,
Life of the fountain there, beneath
Its salient springs, and far apart,
Hating to wander out on earth,
Or breathe into the hollow air,
Whose chillness would make visible
Her subtil, warm, and golden breath,
Which mixing with the infant's blood,
Fulfils him with beatitude.
O, sure it is a special care
Of God, to fortify from doubt,

62

To the earth until the ice would melt

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? What devil had the heart to scathe Flowers thou hadst rear'd-to brush the dew

From thine own lily, when thy grave Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Myself? Is it thus? Myself? Had I So little love for thee? But why Prevail'd not thy pure prayers? Why pray

To one who heeds not, who can save But will not? Great in faith, and strong 91 Against the grief of circumstance Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if

Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive
Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff,
Unpiloted i' the echoing dance
Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low
Unto the death, not sunk! I know
At matins and at evensong,
That thou, if thou wert yet alive, 100
In deep and daily prayers wouldst
strive

To reconcile me with thy God.
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold
At heart, thou wouldest

still

murmur

'Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, My Lord, if so it be Thy will.' Wouldst tell me I must brook the rod And chastisement of human pride;

After a tempest rib and fret
The broad-imbased beach, why he
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?
Wherefore his ridges are not curls
And ripples of an inland mere?
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can
Draw down into his vexed pools
All that blue heaven which hues and

In summer heats, with placid lows
Unfearing, till his own blood flows
About his hoof. And in the flocks
The lamb rejoiceth in the year,
And raceth freely with his fere,
And answers to his mother's calls 159
From the flower'd furrow. In a time
Of which he wots not, run short pains
Thro' his warm heart; and then, from
whence

He knows not, on his light there falls
A shadow; and his native slope,
Where he was wont to leap and climb,
Floats from his sick and filmed eyes,
And something in the darkness draws
His forehead earthward, and he dies.
Shall man live thus, in joy and hope
As a young lamb, who cannot dream,
Living, but that he shall live on? 171
Shall we not look into the laws

Of life and death, and things that seem,

And things that be, and analyze
Our double nature, and compare
All creeds till we have found the one,
If one there be?' Ay me! I fear
All may not doubt, but everywhere
Some must clasp idols. Yet, my God,
Whom call I idol? Let Thy dove 180
Shadow me over, and my sins

Be unremember'd, and Thy love
Enlighten me. O, teach me yet
Somewhat before the heavy clod
Weighs on me, and the busy fret
Of that sharp-headed worm begins
In the gross blackness underneath.

O weary life! O weary death!
O spirit and heart made desolate !
O damned vacillating state!

THE KRAKEN

190

BELOW the thunders of the upper deep,

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides; above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and se cret cell

Unnumber'd and enormous polypi Winnow with giant arms the slumber. ing green.

There hath he lain for ages, and will lie

Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

SONG

THE winds, as at their hour of birth, Leaning upon the ridged sea, Breathed low around the rolling earth With mellow preludes, 'We are free.'

The streams, through many a lilied

row

Down-carolling to the crisped sea, Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow Atween the blossoms, 'We are free.'

LILIAN

I

AIRY, fairy Lilian,
Flitting, fairy Lilian,

When I ask her if she love me
Clasps her tiny hands above me,
Laughing all she can;

She'll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian.

II

When my passion seeks
Pleasance in love-sighs,
She, looking thro' and thro' me
Thoroughly to undo me,

Smiling, never speaks:
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple
From beneath her gathered wimple

Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple

The baby-roses in her cheeks;
Then away she flies.