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Thou and all strength shall crumble, except Love,
By whom, and for whose glory, ye shall
And, when thou art but a dim moaning heard
From out the pitiless glooms of Chaos, I Shall be a power and a memory,
A name to fright all tyrants with, a light Unsetting as the pole-star, a great voice Heard in the breathless pauses ofthe fight By truth and freedom ever waged with wrong,
Clear as a silver trumpet, to awake Huge echoes that from age to age live on In kindred spirits, giving them a sense Of boundless power from boundless suffering wrung:
And many a glazing eye shall smile to see The memory of my triumph (for to meet Wrong with endurance, and to overcome The present with a heart that looks beyond,
Are triumph), like a prophet eagle, perch Upon the sacred banner of the Right. Evil springs up. and flowers, and bears no seed,
And feeds the green earth with its swift decay,
Leaving it richer for the growth of truth; But Good, once put in action or in thought,
Like a strong oak, doth from its boughs shed down
The ripe germs of a forest. Thou, weak god,
Shalt fade and be forgotten! but this soul, Fresh-living still in the serene abyss, Inevery heaving shall partake, that grows From heart to heart among the sons of
men, As the ominous hum before the earthquake runs
Far through the Ægean from roused
That darkens the free light to man:~ This heart, Unscarred by thy grim vulture, as the truth Grows but more lovely 'neath the heal:s and claws
Of Harpies blind that fain would soil it, shall
In all the throbbing exultations share That wait on freedom's triumphs, and in all
The glorious agonies of martyr-spirits, Sharp lightning-throes to split the jagged clouds
That veil the future, showing them the end, Pain's thorny crown for constancy and truth,
Girding the temples like a wreath of stars. This is a thought, that, like the fabled laurel,
Makes my faith thunder-proof; and thy dread bolts
Fall o me like the silent flakes of snow On the hoar brows of aged Caucasus : But, O thought far more blissful, they can rend
This cloud of flesh, and make my soul a star!
Must I lie here upon my altar huge,
While the immortal with the mortal linked
Dreams of its wings and pines for what it dreams,
With upward yearn unceasing. Better
For wisdom is meek sorrow's patient child, And empire over self, and all the deep Strong charities that make men seem like gods;
And love, that makes them be gods, from her breasts
Sucks in the milk that makes mankind one blood.
Good never comes unmixed, or so it seems,
Having two faces, as some images Are carved, of foolish gods; one face is ill;
But one heart lies beneath, and that is good, As are all hearts, when we explore their depths.
Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type
Of what all lofty spirits endure, that fain Would win men back to strength and peace through love:
Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart
Envy, or scorn, or hatred, tears lifelong With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left;
And faith, which is but hope grown wise; and love
And patience, which at last shall over
VIOLET! Sweet violet
Thine eyes are full of tears;
With the thought of other years?
Loved one of my youth thou wast,
All the fair and sunny past, All its openness and truth, Ever fresh and green in thee As the moss is in the sea.
Thy little heart, that hath with love Grown colored like the sky above, On which thou lookest ever, —
Can it know
All the woe
Of hope for what returneth never,
Out on it! no foolish pining
Dims thine eye,
Or for the stars so calmly shining;
Why wilt thou haunt me with thineeyes,
THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.
THERE came a youth upon the earth,
Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.
He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell. Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.
Then King Admetus, one who had
And so, well pleased with being soothed
And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.
His words were simple words enough,
Men called him but a shiftless youth,
In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.
They knew not how he learned at all,
It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use,
For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
He found a healing power profuse.
Men granted that his speech was wise,
Vet after he was dead and gone,
And day by day more holy grew
Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a god.
It is a mere wild rosebud,
Lips must fade and roses wither,
Stay with us no more:
With such a deep, wild bliss ; We must have instincts that glean up Sparse drops of this life in the cup, Whose taste shall give us all that we Can prove of immortality.
Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come