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All grass of silky feather grow —
And while he sinks or swells

The full south-breeze around thee blow
The sound of minster bells.

The fat earth feed thy branchy root,
That under deeply strikes!

The northern morning o'er thee shoot,
High up, in silver spikes!

Nor ever lightning char thy grain,
But, rolling as in sleep,

Low thunders bring the mellow rain,
That makes thee broad and deep !

And hear me swear a solemn oath,
That only by thy side

Will I to Olive plight my troth,
And gain her for my bride.

And when my marriage morn may fall,
She, Dryad-like, shall wear

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball
In wreath about her hair.

And I will work in prose and rhyme, And praise thee more in both

Than bard has honour’d beech or lime, Or that Thessalian growth,

In which the swarthy ringdove sat,
And mystic sentence spoke;

And more than England honours that,
Thy famous brother-oak,

Wherein the younger Charles abode Till all the paths were dim,

And far below the Roundhead rode, And humm'd a surly hymn.


OF love that never found his earthly close,

What sequel ? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts 2

Or all the same as if he had not been 2

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 himself P If this were thus, if this, indeed, were 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

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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 Love — O this world's curse—beloved but hated - canne Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine, And crying, ‘Who is this? behold thy bride,” She push'd me from thee. If the sense is hard To alien ears, I did not speak to these — No, 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? 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 words 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

It could not but

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 conne.

O then like those, who clench their nerves to rush Upon their dissolution, we two rose, There — closing like an individual life — In one blind cry of passion and of pain, Like bitter accusation ev'n to death, Caught up the whole of love and utter'd

it, And bade adieu for ever. Live — yet live — Shall sharpest pathos blight us, knowing all

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

YV 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 once— Not 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 list a burthen from thy heart And leave thee freer, till thou wake

refresh'd 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.


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 been

Up Snowdon; and I wish'd for Leonard

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 Æow, 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 caught — Catch me who can, and make the catcher crown'd — Are 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 ellipse; And human things returning on themselves 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, Yet oceans daily gaining on the land, 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 freer light shall slowly melt In many streams to fatten lower lands,

And light shall spread, and man be liker
Thro' all the season of the golden year.
“Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be
If all the world were falcons, what of
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
Fly happy with the mission of the Cross;
Knit land to land, and blowing haven-
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
Thro' all the circle of the golden year?'
Thus far he flow'd, and ended; where-
“Ah, folly!" in mimic cadence answer'd
“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.” 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 Upon 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


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



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, 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 : For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known: cities of men, And manners, climates, councils, governments, 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 untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

am become a name;)

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


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
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the
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,

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