newPoetry.txt

The Soul has Bandaged moments – When too appalled to stir – She feels some ghastly Fright come up And stop to look at her –  Salute her, with long fingers – Caress her freezing hair – Sip, Goblin, from the very lips The Lover hovered o’er – Unworthy, that a thought so mean Accost a Theme so fair ­–  The soul has moments of escape – When bursting all the doors – She dances like a Bomb, abroad, And swings opon the Hours,  As do the Bee delirious borne – Long Dungeoned from his Rose – Touch Liberty then know no more, But Noon, and Paradise –  The Soul’s retaken moments – When, Felon led along, With shackles on the plumed feet, And staples, in the song,  The Horror welcomes her, again, These, are not brayed of Tongue – I heard a Fly buzz when I died   The Stillness in the Room Was like the Stillness in the Air   Between the Heaves of Storm   The Eyes around had wrung them dry   And Breaths were gathering firm For that last Onset when the King Be witnessed in the Room    I willed my Keepsakes Signed away What portions of me be Assignable and then it was There interposed a Fly    With Blue uncertain stumbling Buzz   Between the light and me   And then the Windows failed and then I could not see to see  Fame is a fickle food Upon a shifting plate Whose table once a Guest but not The second time is set   Whose crumbs the crows inspect And with ironic caw Flap past it to the Farmer’s Corn – Men eat of it and die  To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee  And revery  The revery alone will do, If bees are few  I measure every Grief I meet With narrow, probing, eyes  I wonder if It weighs like Mine  Or has an Easier size   I wonder if They bore it long  Or did it just begin  I could not tell the Date of Mine  It feels so old a pain   I wonder if it hurts to live  And if They have to try  And whether could They choose between  It would not be to die   I note that Some gone patient long  At length, renew their smile   An imitation of a Light That has so little Oil   I wonder if when Years have piled   Some Thousands on the Harm   That hurt them early such a lapse Could give them any Balm    Or would they go on aching still Through Centuries of Nerve  Enlightened to a larger Pain   In Contrast with the Love    The Grieved are many I am told   There is the various Cause   Death is but one and comes but once   And only nails the eyes    There’s Grief of Want and grief of Cold   A sort they call “Despair”   There’s Banishment from native Eyes  In sight of Native Air    And though I may not guess the kind   Correctly yet to me A piercing Comfort it affords In passing Calvary    To note the fashions of the Cross   And how they’re mostly worn   Still fascinated to presume That Some are like my own  I cannot live with You  It would be Life  And Life is over there  Behind the Shelf  The Sexton keeps the Key to  Putting up Our Life His Porcelain  Like a Cup   Discarded of the Housewife  Quaint or Broke  A newer Sevres pleases  Old Ones crack   I could not die with You  For One must wait To shut the Other’s Gaze down  You could not   And I could I stand by And see You freeze  Without my Right of Frost  Death’s privilege?  Nor could I rise with You  Because Your Face Would put out Jesus’  That New Grace  Glow plain and foreign On my homesick Eye  Except that You than He Shone closer by   They’d judge Us How  For You served Heaven You know, Or sought to  I could not   Because You saturated Sight  And I had no more Eyes For sordid excellence As Paradise  And were You lost, I would be  Though My Name Rang loudest On the Heavenly fame   And were You saved  And I condemned to be Where You were not  That self were Hell to Me   So We must meet apart  You there I here  With just the Door ajar That Oceans are and Prayer  And that White Sustenance  Despair  Therefore, this same world Uncomprehended by you must remain Uninfluenced by you  Women as you are, Mere women, personal and passionate, You give us doting mothers, and chaste wives  Sublime Madonnas, and enduring saints! We get no Christ from you,—and verily We shall not get a poet, in my mind    Thou hast nor youth nor age        But as it were an after dinner sleep        Dreaming of both         Here I am, an old man in a dry month,      Being read to by a boy, waiting for rain       I was neither at the hot gates      Nor fought in the warm rain      Nor knee deep in the salt marsh, heaving a cutlass,      Bitten by flies, fought       My house is a decayed house,      And the jew squats on the window sill, the owner,      Spawned in some estaminet of Antwerp,      Blistered in Brussels, patched and peeled in London       The goat coughs at night in the field overhead       Rocks, moss, stonecrop, iron, merds       The woman keeps the kitchen, makes tea,      Sneezes at evening, poking the peevish gutter                          I an old man,      A dull head among windy spaces        Signs are taken for wonders  "We would see a sign":      The word within a word, unable to speak a word,      Swaddled with darkness  In the juvescence of the year      Came Christ the tiger       In depraved May, dogwood and chestnut, flowering Judas,      To be eaten, to be divided, to be drunk      Among whispers  by Mr  Silvero      With caressing hands, at Limoges      Who walked all night in the next room       By Hakagawa, bowing among the Titians       By Madame de Tornquist, in the dark room      Shifting the candles  Fraulein von Kulp      Who turned in the hall, one hand on the door  Vacant shuttles      Weave the wind  I have no ghosts,      An old man in a draughty house      Under a windy knob        After such knowledge, what forgiveness? Think now      History has many cunning passages, contrived corridors      And issues, deceives with whispering ambitions,      Guides us by vanities  Think now      She gives when our attention is distracted      And what she gives, gives with such supple confusions      That the giving famishes the craving  Gives too late      What's not believed in, or if still believed,      In memory only, reconsidered passion  Gives too soon      Into weak hands, what's thought can be dispensed with      Till the refusal propagates a fear  Think      Neither fear nor courage saves us  Unnatural vices      Are fathered by our heroism  Virtues      Are forced upon us by our impudent crimes       These tears are shaken from the wrath-bearing tree        The tiger springs in the new year  Us he devours  Think at last      We have not reached conclusion, when I      Stiffen in a rented house  Think at last      I have not made this show purposelessly      And it is not by any concitation      Of the backward devils       I would meet you upon this honestly       I that was near your heart was removed therefrom      To lose beauty in terror, terror in inquisition       I have lost my passion: why should I need to keep it      Since what is kept must be adulterated?      I have lost my sight, smell, hearing, taste and touch:      How should I use it for your closer contact?       These with a thousand small deliberations      Protract the profit of their chilled delirium,      Excite the membrane, when the sense has cooled,      With pungent sauces, multiply variety      In a wilderness of mirrors  What will the spider do,      Suspend its operations, will the weevil      Delay? De Bailhache, Fresca, Mrs  Cammel, whirled      Beyond the circuit of the shuddering Bear      In fractured atoms  Gull against the wind, in the windy straits      Of Belle Isle, or running on the Horn,      White feathers in the snow, the Gulf claims,      And an old man driven by the Trades      To a sleepy corner        Burbank crossed a little bridge      Descending at a small hotel       Princess Volupine arrived,      They were together, and he fell        Defunctive music under sea      Passed seaward with the passing bell      Slowly: the God Hercules      Had left him, that had loved him well        The horses, under the axletree      Beat up the dawn from Istria      With even feet  Her shuttered barge      Burned on the water all the day        But this or such was Bleistein's way:      A saggy bending of the knees      And elbows, with the palms turned out,      Chicago Semite Viennese        A lustreless protrusive eye      Stares from the protozoic slime      At a perspective of Canaletto       The smoky candle end of time       Declines  On the Rialto once       The rats are underneath the piles       The jew is underneath the lot       Money in furs  The boatman smiles,       Princess Volupine extends      A meagre, blue-nailed, phthisic hand      To climb the waterstair  Lights, lights,      She entertains Sir Ferdinand       Klein  Who clipped the lion's wings      And flea'd his rump and pared his claws?      Thought Burbank, meditating on      Time's ruins, and the seven laws                           And the trees about me,        Let them be dry and leafless  let the rocks        Groan with continual surges  and behind me        Make all a desolation  Look, look, wenches!        Paint me a cavernous waste shore      Cast in the unstilted Cyclades,      Paint me the bold anfractuous rocks      Faced by the snarled and yelping seas        Display me Aeolus above      Reviewing the insurgent gales      Which tangle Ariadne's hair      And swell with haste the perjured sails        Morning stirs the feet and hands      (Nausicaa and Polypheme),      Gesture of orang-outang      Rises from the sheets in steam        This withered root of knots of hair      Slitted below and gashed with eyes,      This oval O cropped out with teeth:      The sickle motion from the thighs       Jackknifes upward at the knees      Then straightens out from heel to hip      Pushing the framework of the bed      And clawing at the pillow slip        Sweeney addressed full length to shave      Broadbottomed, pink from nape to base,      Knows the female temperament      And wipes the suds around his face        (The lengthened shadow of a man      Is history, said Emerson      Who had not seen the silhouette      Of Sweeney straddled in the sun)        Tests the razor on his leg      Waiting until the shriek subsides       The epileptic on the bed      Curves backward, clutching at her sides        The ladies of the corridor      Find themselves involved, disgraced,      Call witness to their principles      And deprecate the lack of taste       Observing that hysteria      Might easily be misunderstood       Mrs  Turner intimates      It does the house no sort of good        But Doris, towelled from the bath,      Enters padding on broad feet,      Bringing sal volatile      And a glass of brandy neat        Webster was much possessed by death      And saw the skull beneath the skin       And breastless creatures under ground      Leaned backward with a lipless grin        Daffodil bulbs instead of balls      Stared from the sockets of the eyes!      He knew that thought clings round dead limbs      Tightening its lusts and luxuries        Donne, I suppose, was such another      Who found no substitute for sense       To seize and clutch and penetrate,      Expert beyond experience,       He knew the anguish of the marrow      The ague of the skeleton       No contact possible to flesh      Allayed the fever of the bone        I thought once how Theocritus had sung    Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years,    Who each one in a gracious hand appears    To bear a gift for mortals, old or young:    And, as I mused it in his antique tongue,    I saw, in gradual vision through my tears,    The sweet, sad years, the melancholy years,    Those of my own life, who by turns had flung    A shadow across me   Straightway I was ’ware,    So weeping, how a mystic Shape did move    Behind me, and drew me backward by the hair     And a voice said in mastery, while I strove,—    “Guess now who holds thee!”—“Death,” I said, But, there,    The silver answer rang, “Not Death, but Love ”           But only three in all God’s universe    Have heard this word thou hast said,—Himself, beside    Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied    One of us       that was God,       and laid the curse    So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce    My sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died,    The death-weights, placed there, would have signified    Less absolute exclusion   “Nay” is worse    From God than from all others, O my friend!    Men could not part us with their worldly jars,    Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend     Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:    And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,    We should but vow the faster for the stars            Unlike are we, unlike, O princely Heart!    Unlike our uses and our destinies     Our ministering two angels look surprise    On one another, as they strike athwart    Their wings in passing   Thou, bethink thee, art    A guest for queens to social pageantries,    With gages from a hundred brighter eyes    Than tears even can make mine, to play thy part    Of chief musician   What hast thou to do    With looking from the lattice-lights at me,    A poor, tired, wandering singer, singing through    The dark, and leaning up a cypress tree?    The chrism is on thine head,—on mine, the dew,—    And Death must dig the level where these agree            Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,    Most gracious singer of high poems! where    The dancers will break footing, from the care    Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more     And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor    For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear    To let thy music drop here unaware    In folds of golden fulness at my door?    Look up and see the casement broken in,    The bats and owlets builders in the roof!    My cricket chirps against thy mandolin     Hush, call no echo up in further proof    Of desolation! there’s a voice within    That weeps       as thou must sing       alone, aloof      V      I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,    As once Electra her sepulchral urn,    And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn    The ashes at thy feet   Behold and see    What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,    And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn    Through the ashen greyness   If thy foot in scorn    Could tread them out to darkness utterly,    It might be well perhaps   But if instead    Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow    The grey dust up,       those laurels on thine head,    O my Belovëd, will not shield thee so,    That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred    The hair beneath   Stand further off then! go!           Go from me   Yet I feel that I shall stand    Henceforward in thy shadow   Nevermore    Alone upon the threshold of my door    Of individual life, I shall command    The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand    Serenely in the sunshine as before,    Without the sense of that which I forbore—    Thy touch upon the palm   The widest land    Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine    With pulses that beat double   What I do    And what I dream include thee, as the wine    Must taste of its own grapes   And when I sue    God for myself, He hears that name of thine,    And sees within my eyes the tears of two            The face of all the world is changed, I think,    Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul    Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole    Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink    Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,    Was caught up into love, and taught the whole    Of life in a new rhythm   The cup of dole    God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,    And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear     The names of country, heaven, are changed away    For where thou art or shalt be, there or here     And this       this lute and song       loved yesterday,    (The singing angels know) are only dear    Because thy name moves right in what they say            What can I give thee back, O liberal    And princely giver, who hast brought the gold    And purple of thine heart, unstained, untold,    And laid them on the outside of the wall    For such as I to take or leave withal,    In unexpected largesse? am I cold,    Ungrateful, that for these most manifold    High gifts, I render nothing back at all?    Not so  not cold,—but very poor instead     Ask God who knows   For frequent tears have run    The colours from my life, and left so dead    And pale a stuff, it were not fitly done    To give the same as pillow to thy head     Go farther! let it serve to trample on            Can it be right to give what I can give?    To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears    As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years    Re-sighing on my lips renunciative    Through those infrequent smiles which fail to live    For all thy adjurations?  O my fears,    That this can scarce be right!  We are not peers    So to be lovers  and I own, and grieve,    That givers of such gifts as mine are, must    Be counted with the ungenerous   Out, alas!    I will not soil thy purple with my dust,    Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,    Nor give thee any love—which were unjust     Beloved, I only love thee! let it pass      X      Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed    And worthy of acceptation   Fire is bright,    Let temple burn, or flax  an equal light    Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:    And love is fire   And when I say at need    I love thee       mark!       I love thee—in thy sight    I stand transfigured, glorified aright,    With conscience of the new rays that proceed    Out of my face toward thine   There’s nothing low    In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures    Who love God, God accepts while loving so     And what I feel, across the inferior features    Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show    How that great work of Love enhances Nature’s            And therefore if to love can be desert,    I am not all unworthy   Cheeks as pale    As these you see, and trembling knees that fail    To bear the burden of a heavy heart,—    This weary minstrel-life that once was girt    To climb Aornus, and can scarce avail    To pipe now ’gainst the valley nightingale    A melancholy music,—why advert    To these things?  O Belovëd, it is plain    I am not of thy worth nor for thy place!    And yet, because I love thee, I obtain    From that same love this vindicating grace    To live on still in love, and yet in vain,—    To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face            Indeed this very love which is my boast,    And which, when rising up from breast to brow,    Doth crown me with a ruby large enow    To draw men’s eyes and prove the inner cost,—    This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,    I should not love withal, unless that thou    Hadst set me an example, shown me how,    When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,    And love called love   And thus, I cannot speak    Of love even, as a good thing of my own:    Thy soul hath snatched up mine all faint and weak,    And placed it by thee on a golden throne,—    And that I love (O soul, we must be meek!)    Is by thee only, whom I love alone            And wilt thou have me fashion into speech    The love I bear thee, finding words enough,    And hold the torch out, while the winds are rough,    Between our faces, to cast light on each?—    I drop it at thy feet   I cannot teach    My hand to hold my spirits so far off    From myself—me—that I should bring thee proof    In words, of love hid in me out of reach     Nay, let the silence of my womanhood    Commend my woman-love to thy belief,—    Seeing that I stand unwon, however wooed,    And rend the garment of my life, in brief,    By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,    Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief            If thou must love me, let it be for nought    Except for love’s sake only   Do not say    “I love her for her smile—her look—her way    Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought    That falls in well with mine, and certes brought    A sense of pleasant ease on such a day”—    For these things in themselves, Belovëd, may    Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought,    May be unwrought so   Neither love me for    Thine own dear pity’s wiping my cheeks dry,—    A creature might forget to weep, who bore    Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby!    But love me for love’s sake, that evermore    Thou may’st love on, through love’s eternity            Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear    Too calm and sad a face in front of thine     For we two look two ways, and cannot shine    With the same sunlight on our brow and hair     On me thou lookest with no doubting care,    As on a bee shut in a crystalline     Since sorrow hath shut me safe in love’s divine,    And to spread wing and fly in the outer air    Were most impossible failure, if I strove    To fail so   But I look on thee—on thee—    Beholding, besides love, the end of love,    Hearing oblivion beyond memory     As one who sits and gazes from above,    Over the rivers to the bitter sea            And yet, because thou overcomest so,    Because thou art more noble and like a king,    Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling    Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow    Too close against thine heart henceforth to know    How it shook when alone   Why, conquering    May prove as lordly and complete a thing    In lifting upward, as in crushing low!    And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword    To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,    Even so, Belovëd, I at last record,    Here ends my strife   If thou invite me forth,    I rise above abasement at the word     Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth!           My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes    God set between His After and Before,    And strike up and strike off the general roar    Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats    In a serene air purely   Antidotes    Of medicated music, answering for    Mankind’s forlornest uses, thou canst pour    From thence into their ears   God’s will devotes    Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine     How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?    A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine    Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?    A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine?    A grave, on which to rest from singing?  Choose            I never gave a lock of hair away    To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,    Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully    I ring out to the full brown length and say    “Take it ”  My day of youth went yesterday     My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee,    Nor plant I it from roseor myrtle-tree,    As girls do, any more: it only may    Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears,    Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside    Through sorrow’s trick   I thought the funeral-shears    Would take this first, but Love is justified,—    Take it thou,—finding pure, from all those years,    The kiss my mother left here when she died            The soul’s Rialto hath its merchandize     I barter curl for curl upon that mart,    And from my poet’s forehead to my heart    Receive this lock which outweighs argosies,—    As purply black, as erst to Pindar’s eyes    The dim purpureal tresses gloomed athwart    The nine white Muse-brows   For this counterpart,          The bay crown’s shade, Belovëd, I surmise,    Still lingers on thy curl, it is so black!    Thus, with a fillet of smooth-kissing breath,    I tie the shadows safe from gliding back,    And lay the gift where nothing hindereth     Here on my heart, as on thy brow, to lack    No natural heat till mine grows cold in death            Belovëd, my Belovëd, when I think    That thou wast in the world a year ago,    What time I sat alone here in the snow    And saw no footprint, heard the silence sink    No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,    Went counting all my chains as if that so    They never could fall off at any blow    Struck by thy possible hand,—why, thus I drink    Of life’s great cup of wonder!  Wonderful,    Never to feel thee thrill the day or night    With personal act or speech,—nor ever cull    Some prescience of thee with the blossoms white    Thou sawest growing!  Atheists are as dull,    Who cannot guess God’s presence out of sight            Say over again, and yet once over again,    That thou dost love me   Though the word repeated    Should seem a “cuckoo-song,” as thou dost treat it,    Remember, never to the hill or plain,    Valley and wood, without her cuckoo-strain    Comes the fresh Spring in all her green completed     Belovëd, I, amid the darkness greeted    By a doubtful spirit-voice, in that doubt’s pain    Cry, “Speak once more—thou lovest!”  Who can fear    Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll,    Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?    Say thou dost love me, love me, love me—toll    The silver iterance!—only minding, Dear,    To love me also in silence with thy soul            When our two souls stand up erect and strong,    Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and nigher,    Until the lengthening wings break into fire    At either curvëd point,—what bitter wrong    Can the earth do to us, that we should not long    Be here contented?  Think!  In mounting higher,    The angels would press on us and aspire    To drop some golden orb of perfect song    Into our deep, dear silence   Let us stay    Rather on earth, Belovëd,—where the unfit    Contrarious moods of men recoil away    And isolate pure spirits, and permit    A place to stand and love in for a day,    With darkness and the death-hour rounding it            Is it indeed so?  If I lay here dead,    Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?    And would the sun for thee more coldly shine    Because of grave-damps falling round my head?    I marvelled, my Belovëd, when I read    Thy thought so in the letter   I am thine—    But       so much to thee?  Can I pour thy wine    While my hands tremble?  Then my soul, instead    Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range     Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me!    As brighter ladies do not count it strange,    For love, to give up acres and degree,    I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange    My near sweet view of heaven, for earth with thee!           Let the world’s sharpness like a clasping knife    Shut in upon itself and do no harm    In this close hand of Love, now soft and warm,    And let us hear no sound of human strife    After the click of the shutting   Life to life—    I lean upon thee, Dear, without alarm,    And feel as safe as guarded by a charm    Against the stab of worldlings, who if rife    Are weak to injure   Very whitely still    The lilies of our lives may reassure    Their blossoms from their roots, accessible    Alone to heavenly dews that drop not fewer     Growing straight, out of man’s reach, on the hill     God only, who made us rich, can make us poor            A heavy heart, Belovëd, have I borne    From year to year until I saw thy face,    And sorrow after sorrow took the place    Of all those natural joys as lightly worn    As the stringed pearls, each lifted in its turn    By a beating heart at dance-time   Hopes apace    Were changed to long despairs, till God’s own grace    Could scarcely lift above the world forlorn    My heavy heart   Then thou didst bid me bring    And let it drop adown thy calmly great    Deep being!  Fast it sinketh, as a thing    Which its own nature does precipitate,    While thine doth close above it, mediating    Betwixt the stars and the unaccomplished fate            I lived with visions for my company    Instead of men and women, years ago,    And found them gentle mates, nor thought to know    A sweeter music than they played to me     But soon their trailing purple was not free    Of this world’s dust, their lutes did silent grow,    And I myself grew faint and blind below    Their vanishing eyes   Then thou didst come—to be,    Belovëd, what they seemed   Their shining fronts,    Their songs, their splendours, (better, yet the same,    As river-water hallowed into fonts)    Met in thee, and from out thee overcame    My soul with satisfaction of all wants:    Because God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame            My own Belovëd, who hast lifted me    From this drear flat of earth where I was thrown,    And, in betwixt the languid ringlets, blown    A life-breath, till the forehead hopefully    Shines out again, as all the angels see,    Before thy saving kiss!  My own, my own,    Who camest to me when the world was gone,    And I who looked for only God, found thee!    I find thee  I am safe, and strong, and glad     As one who stands in dewless asphodel,    Looks backward on the tedious time he had    In the upper life,—so I, with bosom-swell,    Make witness, here, between the good and bad,    That Love, as strong as Death, retrieves as well            My letters! all dead paper, mute and white!    And yet they seem alive and quivering    Against my tremulous hands which loose the string    And let them drop down on my knee to-night     This said,—he wished to have me in his sight    Once, as a friend: this fixed a day in spring    To come and touch my hand       a simple thing,    Yet I wept for it!—this,       the paper’s light          Said, Dear I love thee  and I sank and quailed    As if God’s future thundered on my past     This said, I am thine—and so its ink has paled    With lying at my heart that beat too fast     And this       O Love, thy words have ill availed    If, what this said, I dared repeat at last!           I think of thee!—my thoughts do twine and bud    About thee, as wild vines, about a tree,    Put out broad leaves, and soon there’s nought to see    Except the straggling green which hides the wood     Yet, O my palm-tree, be it understood    I will not have my thoughts instead of thee    Who art dearer, better!  Rather, instantly    Renew thy presence  as a strong tree should,    Rustle thy boughs and set thy trunk all bare,    And let these bands of greenery which insphere thee,    Drop heavily down,—burst, shattered everywhere!    Because, in this deep joy to see and hear thee    And breathe within thy shadow a new air,    I do not think of thee—I am too near thee            I see thine image through my tears to-night,    And yet to-day I saw thee smiling   How    Refer the cause?—Belovëd, is it thou    Or I, who makes me sad?  The acolyte    Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite    May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,    On the altar-stair   I hear thy voice and vow,    Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,    As he, in his swooning ears, the choir’s amen     Belovëd, dost thou love? or did I see all    The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when    Too vehement light dilated my ideal,    For my soul’s eyes?  Will that light come again,    As now these tears come—falling hot and real?           Thou comest! all is said without a word     I sit beneath thy looks, as children do    In the noon-sun, with souls that tremble through    Their happy eyelids from an unaverred    Yet prodigal inward joy   Behold, I erred    In that last doubt! and yet I cannot rue    The sin most, but the occasion—that we two    Should for a moment stand unministered    By a mutual presence   Ah, keep near and close,    Thou dove-like help! and when my fears would rise,    With thy broad heart serenely interpose:    Brood down with thy divine sufficiencies    These thoughts which tremble when bereft of those,    Like callow birds left desert to the skies            The first time that the sun rose on thine oath    To love me, I looked forward to the moon    To slacken all those bonds which seemed too soon    And quickly tied to make a lasting troth     Quick-loving hearts, I thought, may quickly loathe     And, looking on myself, I seemed not one    For such man’s love!—more like an out-of-tune    Worn viol, a good singer would be wroth    To spoil his song with, and which, snatched in haste,    Is laid down at the first ill-sounding note     I did not wrong myself so, but I placed    A wrong on thee   For perfect strains may float    ’Neath master-hands, from instruments defaced,—    And great souls, at one stroke, may do and doat            Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear    The name I used to run at, when a child,    From innocent play, and leave the cowslips plied,    To glance up in some face that proved me dear    With the look of its eyes   I miss the clear    Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled    Into the music of Heaven’s undefiled,    Call me no longer   Silence on the bier,    While I call God—call God!—so let thy mouth    Be heir to those who are now exanimate     Gather the north flowers to complete the south,    And catch the early love up in the late     Yes, call me by that name,—and I, in truth,    With the same heart, will answer and not wait            With the same heart, I said, I’ll answer thee    As those, when thou shalt call me by my name—    Lo, the vain promise! is the same, the same,    Perplexed and ruffled by life’s strategy?    When called before, I told how hastily    I dropped my flowers or brake off from a game     To run and answer with the smile that came    At play last moment, and went on with me    Through my obedience   When I answer now,    I drop a grave thought, break from solitude     Yet still my heart goes to thee—ponder how—    Not as to a single good, but all my good!    Lay thy hand on it, best one, and allow    That no child’s foot could run fast as this blood            If I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange    And be all to me?  Shall I never miss    Home-talk and blessing and the common kiss    That comes to each in turn, nor count it strange,    When I look up, to drop on a new range    Of walls and floors, another home than this?    Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which is    Filled by dead eyes too tender to know change    That’s hardest   If to conquer love, has tried,    To conquer grief, tries more, as all things prove,    For grief indeed is love and grief beside     Alas, I have grieved so I am hard to love     Yet love me—wilt thou?  Open thy heart wide,    And fold within, the wet wings of thy dove            When we met first and loved, I did not build    Upon the event with marble   Could it mean    To last, a love set pendulous between    Sorrow and sorrow?  Nay, I rather thrilled,    Distrusting every light that seemed to gild    The onward path, and feared to overlean    A finger even   And, though I have grown serene    And strong since then, I think that God has willed    A still renewable fear       O love, O troth          Lest these enclaspëd hands should never hold,    This mutual kiss drop down between us both    As an unowned thing, once the lips being cold     And Love, be false! if he, to keep one oath,    Must lose one joy, by his life’s star foretold            Pardon, oh, pardon, that my soul should make    Of all that strong divineness which I know    For thine and thee, an image only so    Formed of the sand, and fit to shift and break     It is that distant years which did not take    Thy sovranty, recoiling with a blow,    Have forced my swimming brain to undergo    Their doubt and dread, and blindly to forsake    Thy purity of likeness and distort    Thy worthiest love to a worthless counterfeit     As if a shipwrecked Pagan, safe in port,    His guardian sea-god to commemorate,    Should set a sculptured porpoise, gills a-snort    And vibrant tail, within the temple-gate            First time he kissed me, he but only kissed    The fingers of this hand wherewith I write     And ever since, it grew more clean and white     Slow to world-greetings, quick with its “O, list,”    When the angels speak   A ring of amethyst    I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,    Than that first kiss   The second passed in height    The first, and sought the forehead, and half missed,    Half falling on the hair   O beyond meed!    That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,    With sanctifying sweetness, did precede    The third upon my lips was folded down    In perfect, purple state  since when, indeed,    I have been proud and said, “My love, my own ”           Because thou hast the power and own’st the grace    To look through and behind this mask of me,    (Against which, years have beat thus blanchingly,    With their rains,) and behold my soul’s true face,    The dim and weary witness of life’s race,—    Because thou hast the faith and love to see,    Through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,    The patient angel waiting for a place    In the new Heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,    Nor God’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,    Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,    Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—    Nothing repels thee,       Dearest, teach me so    To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!           Oh, yes! they love through all this world of ours!    I will not gainsay love, called love forsooth:    I have heard love talked in my early youth,    And since, not so long back but that the flowers    Then gathered, smell still   Mussulmans and Giaours    Throw kerchiefs at a smile, and have no ruth    For any weeping   Polypheme’s white tooth    Slips on the nut if, after frequent showers,    The shell is over-smooth,—and not so much    Will turn the thing called love, aside to hate    Or else to oblivion   But thou art not such    A lover, my Belovëd! thou canst wait    Through sorrow and sickness, to bring souls to touch,    And think it soon when others cry “Too late ”           I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,    With thanks and love from mine   Deep thanks to all    Who paused a little near the prison-wall    To hear my music in its louder parts    Ere they went onward, each one to the mart’s    Or temple’s occupation, beyond call     But thou, who, in my voice’s sink and fall    When the sob took it, thy divinest Art’s    Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot    To harken what I said between my tears,          Instruct me how to thank thee!  Oh, to shoot    My soul’s full meaning into future years,    That they should lend it utterance, and salute    Love that endures, from life that disappears!           My future will not copy fair my past—    I wrote that once  and thinking at my side    My ministering life-angel justified    The word by his appealing look upcast    To the white throne of God, I turned at last,    And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied    To angels in thy soul!  Then I, long tried    By natural ills, received the comfort fast,    While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim’s staff    Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled     I seek no copy now of life’s first half:    Leave here the pages with long musing curled,    And write me new my future’s epigraph,    New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!           How do I love thee?  Let me count the ways     I love thee to the depth and breadth and height    My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight    For the ends of Being and ideal Grace     I love thee to the level of everyday’s    Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight     I love thee freely, as men strive for Right     I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise     I love thee with the passion put to use    In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith     I love thee with a love I seemed to lose    With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,    Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,    I shall but love thee better after death            Belovëd, thou hast brought me many flowers    Plucked in the garden, all the summer through,    And winter, and it seemed as if they grew    In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers     So, in the like name of that love of ours,    Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,    And which on warm and cold days I withdrew    From my heart’s ground   Indeed, those beds and bowers    Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,    And wait thy weeding  yet here’s eglantine,    Here’s ivy!—take them, as I used to do    Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine     Instruct thine eyes to keep their colours true,    And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine     Like arabesques of ebony,     The cypresses, in silhouette,     Fantastically cleave and fret     A moon of yellow ivory       The coldly colored rays illume     A leafy pattern manifold,     And all the field is overscrolled     With curiously figured gloom       Like arabesques of ebony,     Or like Arabian lattices,     Forever seem the cypresses     Before a moon of ivory                Beyond the far Cathayan wall,     A thousand leagues athwart the sky,     The scarlet stars and mornings die,     The gilded moons and sunsets fall       Across the sulphur-colored sands     With bales of silk the camels fare,     Harnessed with vermil and with vair,     Into the blue and burning lands       And, ah, the song the drivers sing,     To while the desert leagues away—     A song they sang in old Cathay,     Ere youth had left the eldest king,—      Ere love and beauty both grew old,     And wonder and romance were flown     On fiery wings to worlds unknown,     To stars of undiscovered gold       And I their alien words would know,     And follow past the lonely Wall,     Where gilded moons and sunsets fall,     As in a song of long ago               Omar, within thy scented garden-close,     When passed with eventide     The starward incense of the waning rose—     Too fair and dear and precious to abide     After the glad and golden death of spring—     Omar, thou heardest then,     Above the world of men,     The mournful rumour of an iron wing,     The sough and sigh of desolating years,     Whereof the wind is as the winds that blow     Out of a lonesome land of night and snow,     Where ancient winter weeps with frozen tears      And in thy bodeful ears,     The brief and tiny lisp     Of petals curled and crisp,     Fallen at Eve in Persia’s mellow clime,     Was mingled with the mighty sound of time       Omar, thou knewest well     How the fair days are sorrowful and strange     With time’s inexorable mystery     And terror ineluctable of change:     Upon thine eyes the bleak and bitter spell     Of vision, thou didst see,     As in a magic glass,     The moulded mists and painted shadows pass—     The ghostly pomps we name reality      And, lo, the level field,     With broken fane and throne,     And dust of old, unfabled cities sown,     In unremembering years was made to yield,     From out the shards of Pow’r,     The pillars frail and small     That lift for capital     The blood-like bubble of the poppy-flow’r      And crowns were crumbled for the airy gold     The crocus and the daffodil should hold     As inalienable dow’r      Before thy gaze, the sad unvaried green     The cypresses like robes funereal wear,     Was woven on the gradual looms of air,     From threadbare silk and tattered sendaline     That clothed some ancient queen      And from the spoilt vermilion of her mouth,     The myrtles rose, and from her ruined hair,     And eyes that held the summer’s ardent drouth     In blown, forgotten bow’rs      And amber limbs and breast,     Through ancient nights by sleepless love oppressed,     Or by the iron flight of loveless hours       Knowing the weary wisdom of the years,     The empty truth of tears      The suns of June, that with some great excess     Of ardour slay the unabiding rose,     And grey-haired winter, wan and fervourless     For whom no flower grows      Seeing the scarlet and the gold that pales,     On Orient snows untrod,     In magic morns that grant,     Across a land of common green and gray,     The disenchanted day      Knowing the iron veils     And walls of adamant,     That ward the flaming verities of God—     Knowing these things, ah, surely thou wert wise,     Beneath the warm and thunder-dreaming skies,     To kiss on ardent breast and avid mouth,     Some girl whose sultry eyes     Were golden with the sun-beloved south—     To pluck the rose and drain the rose-red wine,     In gardens half-divine      Before the broken cup     Be filled and covered up     In dusty seas of everlasting drouth             O love, thy lips are bright and cold,     Like jewels carven curiously     To symbols of a mystery,     A secret dim, forgotten, old       Like woven amber, finely spun,     Thy hair, enwoofed with golden light,     Remembers yet the flaming flight     Of some unknown, archaic sun       Thine eyes are crystals green and chill,     Wherein, as in a shifting sea,     Wan fires and drowning splendours flee     To stealthy deeps forever still       Fallen across thy dreaming face,     The dawn is made a secret thing,     Like flame of crimson lamps that swing     At midnight, in a cavern-space       Thy smile is like the furtive gleam     Of fleeing moons a traveller sees     Through closing arms of cypress-trees,     In secret realms of night and dream       Sphinx-like, unsolved eternally,     Thy beauty’s riddle doth abide,     And love hath come, and love hath died,     Striving to read the mystery               In years no vision shall aver,     In lands no dream may name,     Tow’rd alien things what longings were,     And thence what languors came!      For each horizon straightly sought,     With fealty to the stars,     What death and weariness were bought,     What bitterness, what bars!             *       *       *       *       *      I waken unto years afar,     And find the quest made new     In Earth, that was perchance a star     Unto my former view              The secret rose we vainly dream to find,     Was blown in grey Atlantis long ago,     Or in old summers of the realms of snow,     Its attar lulled the pole-arisen wind      Or once its broad and breathless petals pined     In gardens of Persepolis, aglow     With desert sunlight, and the fiery, slow     Red waves of sand, invincible and blind       On orient isles, or isles hesperian,     Through mythic days ere mortal time began,     It flowered above the ever-flowering foam      Or, legendless, in lands of yesteryear,     It flamed among the violets—near, how near,     To unenchanted fields and hills of home!             Her face the sinking stars desire      Unto her place the slow deeps bring     Shadow of errant winds that wing     O’er sterile gulfs of foam and fire       Her beauty is the light of pearls      All stars and dreams and sunsets die     To make the fluctuant glooms that lie     Around her, and low noonlight swirls      Down ocean’s firmamental deep,     To weave for her who glimmers there,     Elusive visions, vague and fair      And night is as a dreamless sleep:      She has not known the night’s unrest,     Nor the white curse of clearer day      The tremors of the tempest play     Like slow delight about her breast       Serene, an immanence of fire,     She dwells forever, ocean-thralled,     Soul of the sea’s vast emerald      Her face the sinking stars desire              Upon the seas of Saturn I have sailed     To isles of high, primeval amarant,     Where the flame-tongued sonorous flow’rs enchant     The hanging surf to silence: All engrailed      With ruby-colored pearls, the golden shore     Allured me  but as one whom spells restrain,     For blind horizons of the sombre main,     And harbors never known, my singing prore      I set forthrightly: Formed of fire and brass,     Immenser skies divided, deep on deep     Before me,—till, above the darkling foam,      With dome on cloudless adamantine dome,     Black peaks no peering seraph deems to pass,     Rose up from realms ineffable as Sleep!            The silver silence of the moon     Upon the sleeping garden lies      The wind of evening dies,     As in forgetful dreams a ghostly tune       How white, how still, the flowers are,     As carved of pearl and ivory!     The pines are ebony,     A sombre frieze on heavens pale and far       Like mirrors made of lucid stone,     The pools lie calm, and bright, and cold,     Where moon and stars behold,     In some eternal trance, themselves alone              Lo, for Earth’s manifest monotony     Of ordered aspect unto sun and star,     And single moon, I turn to years afar,     And ampler worlds ensphered in memory       There, to the zoned and iris-differing light     Of three swift suns in heavens of vaster range,     Transcendant Beauty knows a trinal change,     And dawn and eve are in the place of night       There, long ago, in mornings ocean-green,     I saw bright deserts dusky with the sky,     Or under yellow noons, wide waters lie     Like wrinkled bronze made hot with fires unseen       Strange flow’rs that bloom but to an azure sun,     I saw  and all complexities of light     That work fantastic magic on the sight,     Wrought unimagined marvels one by one       There, swifter shadows suffer gorgeous dooms—     Lost in an orange noon, an azure morn      At twofold eve, large, winged lights are born,     Towering to meet the dawn, or briefest glooms      Of chrysoberyl filled with wondering stars,     Draw from an emerald east to skies of gold      Tow’rd jasper waters leaning to behold,     Vague moons are lost amid great nenuphars             It seems to me that I have lived alone—     Alone, as one that liveth in a dream:     As light on coldest marble, or the gleam     Of moons eternal on a land of stone,     The dawns have been to me  I have but known     The silence of a frozen land extreme—     A sole attending silence, all supreme     As is the sea’s enormous monotone       Upon the icy desert of my days,     No bright mirages are, but iron rays     Of dawn relentless, and the bitter light     Of all-revealing noon **** Alone, I crave     The friendly clasp of finite arms, to save     My spirit from the ravening Infinite              Beauty, thou orchid of immortal bloom,     Sprung from the fire and dust of perished spheres,     How art thou tall in these autumnal years     With the red rain of immemorial doom,     And fragrant where but lesser suns illume,     For sustenance of Life’s forgotten tears!     Ever thy splendour and thy light appears     Like dawn from out the midnight of the tomb       Colours, and gleams, and glamours unrecalled,     Richly thy petals intricate revive:     Blossom, whose roots are in Eternity,     The faithful soul, the sentience darkly thralled,     In dream and wonder evermore shall strive     At Edens lost of time and memory      A        Autumn far-off in memory,     That saw the crisping myrtles fade!****     Aeons agone, my tomb was made,     Beside the moon-constrainèd sea       Ah, wonderful its portals were!     With carven doors of chrysolite,     And walls of sombre syenite,     They wrought mine olden sepulchre!      About the griffin-guarded plinth,     White blossoms crowned the scarlet vine      And burning orchids opaline     Illumed the palm and terebinth       On friezes of mine ancient fame,     The cypress wrought its writhen shade      And through the boughs the ocean made     Moresques of blue and fretted flame       Poet or prince, I may not know     My perished name, nor bring to mind     Years that are one with dust and wind,     Nor songless love, and tongueless woe—:      Only the tomb they made for me,     With carven doors of chrysolite,     And walls of sombre syenite,     Beside the moon-constrainèd sea             The sunset-gonfalons are furled     On plains of evening, broad and pale,     And, wov’n athwart the waning world,     The air is like a silver veil       Into the thin and trembling gloom,     That holds a hueless warp of light,     The murmuring wind on a slow loom,     Weaves the rich purples of the night             Grey hells, or hells aglow with hot and scarlet flow’rs      White hells of light and clamour  hells the abomination     Of breathless, deep sepulchral desolation     Oppresses ever—I have known them all, through hours     Tedious as dead eternity  where timeless pow’rs,     Leagued in malign, omnipotent persuasion—     Wearing the guise of love, despair and aspiration,     Forever drove, through ashen fields and burning bow’rs,      My soul that found no sanctuary **** For Lucifer,     And all the weary, proud, imperious, baffled ones     Made in his image, hell is anywhere: The ice     Of hyperboreal deserts, or the blowing spice     In winds from off Sumatra, for each wanderer     Preserves the jealous flame of sad, infernal suns             Mirrors of steel or silver, gold or glass antique!     Whether in melancholy marble palaces     In some long trance you drew the dreamy loveliness     Of Roman queens, or queens barbarical, or Greek      Or, further than the bright and sun-pursuing beak     Of argosy might fare, beheld the empresses     Of lost Lemuria  or behind the lattices     Alhambran, have returned forbidden smiles oblique      Of wan, mysterious women!—Mirrors, mirrors old,     Mirrors immutable, impassable as Fate,     Your bosoms held the perished beauty of the past     Nearer than straining love might ever hope to hold      And fleeing faces, lips too phantom-frail to last,     Found in your magic depth a life re-duplicate              Ah, woe is me, for Love hath lain asleep,     Hath lain too long in some Morphean close,—     Till on his dreaming wings the ruined rose     Fell lightly, and the rose-red leaves were deep       Alas, alas, for Love is overlate!     Far-wandering, alone, we know not where,     He found the white and purple poppies fair,     Nor heard the Summer pass importunate       Ah, Love, can we forgive thy loitering?     The golden Summer, as a dream foregone     Is changed—till in our eyes the ashen dawn     Of Autumn kindles **** We have heard thy wing     But with a sound of sighing  heart on heart,     In our own sighs we hear thy wing depart                 O, Muse, where lingerest thou? In any land     Of Saturn, lit with moons and nenuphars?     Or in what high metropolis of Mars—     Hearing the gongs of dire, occult command,     And bugles blown from strand to unknown strand     Of continents embattled in old wars     That primal kings began? Or on the bars     Of ebbing seas in Venus, from the sand     Of shattered nacre with a thousand hues,     Dost pluck the blossoms of the purple wrack     And roses of blue coral for thy hair?     Or, flown beyond the roaring Zodiac,     Translatest thou the tale of earthly news     And earthly songs to singers of Altair?            The harsh, brief sob of broken horns  the sound     Of hammers, on some echoing sepulchre      Lutes in a thunderstorm  a dulcimer     By sudden drums and clamouring bugles drowned      Crackle of pearls, and gritting rubies, ground     Beneath an iron heel  the heavy whirr     Of battle wheels  a hungry leopard’s purr,     And sigh of swords withdrawing from the wound—:      All, all are in thy dreadful fugue, O Life,     Thy dark, malign and monstrous music, spun     In hell, from a delirious Satan’s dream!***     O! dissonance primordial and supreme—     The moan, the thunder, evermore at strife,     Beneath the unheeding silence of the sun!               Importunate, the lion-throated sea,     Blind with the mounting foam of winter, mourns     To cliffs where cling the wrenched and laboured roots     Of cypresses, and blossoms granite-grown     Lose in the gale their tattered petals, cast     On bleak, tumultuous cauldrons of the tide,     Where fell thy molten ashes **** Past the bay,     The morning dunes a dust of marble seem—     Wrought from primeval fanes to Beauty reared,     And shattered by some vandal Titan’s mace     To more than Time’s own ruin  Woods of pine,     Above the dunes in Gothic gloom recede,     And climb the ridge that arches to the north     Long as a lolling dragon’s chine  The gulls,     Like ashen leaves far-off upon the wind,     Flutter above the broad and smouldering sea,     That lightens with the fire-white foam: But thou,     Of whom the sea is urn and sepulcher,     Who hast thereof a blown, tumultuous sleep,     And stormy peace in gulfs impacable—     What carest thou if Beauty loiter there,     Clad with the crystal noon? What carest thou     If sharp and sudden balsams of the pine     Mingle for her in the air’s bright thurible     With keener fragrance proffered by the deep     From riven gulfs resounding?*** Knowest thou     What solemn shores of crocus-colored light,     Reared by the sunset in its realm of change,     Will mock the dream-lost isles that sirens ward,     And charm the icy emerald of the seas     To unabiding iris? Knowest thou     The waxing of the wan December foam—     A thunder-cloven veil that climbs and falls     Upon the cliffs forever?                            Thou art still     As they that sleep in the eldest pyramid—     Or mounded with Mesopotamia     And immemorial deserts! Thou hast part     In the wordless, dumb conspiracy of death—     Silence wherein the warrior kings accord,     And all the wrangling sages! If thy voice     In any wise return, and word of thee,     It is a lost, incognizable sigh,     Upon the wind’s oblivious woe, or blown,     Antiphonal, from wave to plangent wave     In the vast, unhuman sorrow of the main,     On tides that lave the city-laden shores     Of lands wherein the eternal vanities     Are served at many altars  tides that wash     Lemuria’s unfathomable walls,     And idly sway the weed-involvèd oars     At wharves of lost Atlantis  tides that rise     From coral-coffered bones of all the drowned,     And sunless tombs of pearl that krakens guard                                             As none shall roam the sad Leucadian rock,     Above the sea’s immitigable moan,     But in his heart a song that Sappho sang,     And flame-like murmur of the muted lyres     That time hath not extinguished, and the cry     Of nightingales two thousand years ago,     Shall mix with those remorseful chords that break     To endless foam and thunder  and he learn     The unsleeping woe that lives in Mytelene     Till wave and deep are dumb with ice, and rime     Hath paled the rose forever—even thus,     Daughter of Sappho, passion-souled and fair,     Whose face the lutes of Lesbos would have sung,     And white Errina followed—even thus,     The western wave is eloquent of thee,     And half the wine-like fragrance of the foam     Is attar of thy spirit, and the pines     From breasts of mournful, melancholy green,     Release remembered echoes of thy song     To airs importunate  No wraith of fog,     Twice-ghostly with the Hecatean moon,     Nor rack of blown, fantasmal spume shall rise,     But I will dream thy spirit walks the sea,     Unpacified with Lethe  Thou art grown     A part of all sad beauty, and my soul     Hath found thy buried sorrow in its own,     Inseparable forever  Moons that pass,     Immaculate, to solemn pyres of snow,     And meres whereon the broken lotus dies,     Are kin to thee, as wine-lipped autumn is,     With suns of swift, irreparable change,     And lucid evenings eager-starred  Of thee,     The pearlèd fountains tell, and winds that take     In one white swirl the petals of the plum,     And leave the branches lonely  Royal blooms     Of the magnolia, pale as Beauty’s brow,     And foam-white myrtles, and the fiery, bright     Pome-granate flow’rs, will subtly speak of thee     While spring hath speech and meaning  Music hath     Her fugitive and uncommanded chords,     That thrill with tremors of thy mystery,     Or turn the void thy fleeing soul hath left     To murmurs inenarrable, that hold     Epiphanies of blind, conceiveless vision,     And things we dare not know, and dare not dream      Rememberest thou? Enormous gongs of stone     Were stricken, and the storming trumpeteers     Acclaimed my deed to answering tides of spears,     And spoke the names of monsters overthrown—     Griffins whose angry gold, and fervid store     Of sapphires wrenched from marble-plungèd mines—     Carnelians, opals, agates, almandines,     I brought to thee some scarlet eve of yore       In the wide fane that shrined thee, Venus-wise,     The fallen clamours died **** I heard the tune     Of tiny bells of pearl and melanite,     Hung at thy knees, and arms of dreamt delight      And placed my wealth before thy fabled eyes,     Pallid and pure as jaspers from the moon             Ah, more to me than many days and many dreams     And more than every hope, or any memory,     This moment, when thy lips are laid immortally     On mine, and death and time are shadows of old dreams       Now all the crownless, ruined years have recompense:     In one supreme, undying hour of light and fire,     The many moons and suns have found their one desire—     When in the hour of love, all life has recompense             Thy mouth is like a crimson orchid-flow’r,     Whence perfume and whence poison rise unseen     To moons aswim in iris or in green,     Or mix with morning in an eastern bow’r       Thou shouldst have known, in amaranthine isles,     The sunsets hued like fire of frankincense,     Or the long noons enfraught with redolence,     The mingled spicery of purple miles       Thy breasts, where blood and molten marble flow,     Thy warm white limbs, thy loins of tropic snow—     These, these, by which desire is grown divine,      Were made for dreams in mystic palaces,     For love, and sleep, and slow voluptuousness,     And summer seas a-foam like foaming wine             To look on love with disenamoured eyes      To see with gaze relentless, rendered clear     Of hope or hatred, of desire and fear,     The insuperable nullity that lies     Behind the veils of various disguise     Which life or death may haply weave  to hear     Forevermore in flute and harp the mere     And all-resolving silence  recognize     The gules of autumn in the greening leaf,     And in the poppy-pod the poppy-flow’r—     This is to be the lord of love and grief,     O’er Time’s illusion and thyself supreme,     As, half-aroused in some nocturnal hour,     The dreamer knows and dominates his dream             Dear you were as is the tree of Being     To the happy dead in heaven’s bow’rs ****     Whence and what, this evil spell that flings me     Forth from love with loveless eyes unseeing?      Fair you were as nymph or queen of vision—     Bosomed like the succubi of dreams ****     All your beauty turns to sad, ironic     Weariness, and sorrowful derision       Lo, of what avail our spent caresses,—     Kisses that set the summer night aflame?****     Mute, enormous languor without cause—     What is this my autumn heart confesses?      All your breast was fragrant like the flowers     Of the grape on hills toward the south ****     Love is acrid now like staling asters,     Sodden with the rain of autumn hours                The glories and the perils of thy day     Are one, O Man! Thou goest to thine end     With Pow’rs, and for a little thou dost wend     With marshalled Majesties upon their way:     But thee the dread Necessities betray     That nurse, and fearful Splendours that befriend      And thee shall alien Dominations rend ****     Deemest the triumph of the worlds to stay,     Or step by step eternal, unsurpassed,     Stride with the suns upon their road of awe?     Thou travelest brief ways that end and sink—     Urged by the hurrying planets  and the vast,     Prone-rushing constellations of the Law,     Thunder and press behind thee at the brink             Thy heart will not believe in love:     Therefore is love become to me     A dream, an empty mockery,     And death and life are less than love       O, bright and beautiful as flame     Thy hair, and pale thy lips, and eyes     Like seas wherein the waning skies     Of autumn lie in paler flame       Forevermore thy heart abides,     A dreaming crystal, pure and cold,     Amid whose visions manifold     No shape nor any shade abides       Thy days are void and vain as death:     The moons and morrows weave for thee     A sleep of light eternally,     Where life is as a dream of death       Chill as white jewels, or the moon,     And virginal as ice or fire,     Thou knowest life and life’s desire     As a bright mirror knows the moon       Lo, if thy heart believed in love,     It were not more nor less to me:     I know  love a mockery,     And all my dreams less vain than love               Dreaming, I said,  “When she is come,     This desert garden that is me,     For her shall offer mellowly     Its myrrh and its olibanum—     When she is come       “The flowers of the moon for her,     With blossoms of the sun shall bloom,     The fading roses breathe perfume,     The lightly fallen petals stir,     And sigh to her         “Her presence, like a living wind     Each little leaf makes visible,     Shall enter there, or like the spell     (Upon the lulling leaves divined)     Of silent wind ”             *       *       *       *       *      Alas! for she is come and gone,     And in the garden, green for her,     The flowers fall, the flowers stir     Only to winds of night and dawn:     For she is gone                Because of thee, immortal Love hath died:     Because thy wilful heart will not believe,     Thy hands and mine a thorny crown must weave,     A thorny crown for Love the crucified       Behold, how beautiful the limbs that bleed—     The limbs that bleed, O stubborn heart, for us!     Still are the lids so softly tremulous,     And mute the mouth of our eternal need              *       *       *       *       *      Though this thy fearful lips would now deny,     Love is divine, and cannot wholly die:     Draw forth the nails thy tender hands have driven—      And we will know the mercy infinite,     Will find redemption in our own delight,     And in each other’s heart the only heaven              Against my heart your heart is closed  you bid me go:     What ways are left in all the world for Love to know?     Desolate oceans, and the light of lonely plains,     Dead moons that wander in the wastes of ice and snow—      These, these I fain would see, and find the splendid bourne     Of sunset, or the brazen deserts of the morn,     That I might lose this ever-aching loneliness     In vaster solitude  and love be less forlorn,      Faring to seek with alien sun and alien star     The strange, the veiled horizons infinite and far      Spaces of fire and night, the skies of steel and gold,     Or sunset-haunted seas where foamless islands are               Black dreams  the pale and sorrowful desire     Whose eyes have looked on Lethe, and have seen,     Deep in the sliding ebon tide serene,     Their own vain light inverted  ashen fire,     With wasted lilies, late and languishing      Autumnal roses blind with rain  slow foam     From desert-sinking seas, with honeycomb     Of aconite and poppy—these I bring     With this my bitter, barren love to thee      And from the grievous springs of memory,     Far in the great Maremma of my heart,     I proffer thee to drink  and on thy mouth,     With the one kiss wherein we meet and part,     Leave fire and dust from quenchless leagues of drouth             The ghostly fire that walks the fen,     Tonight thine only light shall be      On lethal ways thy soul shall pass,     And prove the stealthy, coiled morass,     With mocking mists for company       On roads thou goest not again,     To shores where thou hast never gone,—     Fare onward, though the shuddering queach     And serpent-rippled waters reach     Like seepage-pools of Acheron,      Beside thee  and the twisten reeds,     Close-raddled as a witch’s net,     Enwind thy knees, and cling and clutch     Like wreathing adders  though the touch     Of the blind air be dank and wet,      As from a wounded Thing that bleeds     In cloud and darkness overhead—     Fare onward, where thy dreams of yore     In splendour drape the fetid shore     And pestilential waters dead       And though the toads’ irrision rise,     As grinding of Satanic racks,     And spectral willows, gaunt and grey,     Gibber along thy shrouded way,     Where vipers lie with livid backs,      And watch thee with their sulphurous eyes,—     Fare onward, till thy feet shall slip     Deep in the sudden pool ordained,     And all the noisome draught be drained,     That turns to Lethe on the lip                O lovely demon, half-divine!     Hemlock, and hydromel, and gall,     Honey, and aconite, and wine,     Mingle to make that mouth of thine—      Thy mouth I love: But most of all,     It is thy tears that I desire—     Thy tears, like fountain-drops that fall     In gardens red, Satanical       Or like the tears of mist and fire,     Wept by the moon, that wizards use     To secret runes, when they require     Some silver philtre, sweet and dire      A        With words of ivory,     Of bronze, of ebony,     Of alabaster, marble, steel, and gold,     The beauty of the visible is told       But how with these express     The unseen Loveliness—     Splendour and light, and harmony, and sound,     The heart hath felt, the sense hath never found?      No shining words of stone—     Shadow and cloud alone—     These shall the poet seek eternally,     Whose lines would carve the mask of Mystery              The years are a falling of snow,     Slow, but without cessation,     On hills, and mountains, and flowers and worlds that were      But snow, and the crawling night wherein it fell,     May be washed away in one swifter hour of flame:     Thus it was that some slant of sunset     In the chasms of pilèd cloud—     Transient mountains that made a new horizon,     Uplifting the west to fantastic pinnacles—     Smote warm in a buried realm of the spirit,     Till the snows of forgetfulness were gone      Clear in the vistas of memory,     The peaks of a world long unremembered,     Soared further than clouds but fell not,     Based on hills that shook not nor melted     With that burden enormous, hardly to be believed       Rent with stupendous chasms,     Full of an umber twilight,     I beheld that larger world      Bright was the twilight, sharp like ethereal wine     Above, but low in the clefts it thickened,     Dull as with duskier tincture      Like whimsical wings outspread but unstirring,     Flowers that seemed spirits of the twilight     That must pass with its passing—     Too fragile for day or for darkness,     Fed the dusk with more delicate hues than its own      Stars that were nearer, more radiant than ours,     Quivered and pulsed in the clear thin gold of the sky       These things I beheld     Till the gold was shaken with flight     Of fantastical wings like broken shadows,     Forerunning the darkness      Till the twilight shivered with outcry of eldritch voices     Like pain’s last cry ere oblivion             I bring my weariness to thee,     My bitter dreams I bring      Love with a wounded wing,     And life consumed of memory,     I bring to thee       The haven of thy happy breast—     Of this my dreams are fain:     For all my weary pain,     In all the world there is no rest,     But on thy breast             There is no peace amid the moonlight and the pines      Deep in the windless gloom the lamplike thought of you     Abides  and ah, what burning memories pursue     My heart among the pallid marbles!*** Night assigns      Your silver face for wardress of the doors of Sleep      Beyond the wild, last bourn of dreamland, lo, your eyes     Are on the lonesome, ultimate, undiscovered skies      Moonlike and dim, you wander ever in the deep      Which is the secret, innermost, unknown abyss     Of my own soul, and in its night your spirit lives ****     Shall I not find the very draught that Lethe gives,     Sweet with your tears, and warm with savour of your kiss?              Our passion is a secret Paradise—     Eden of lotos and the fruitful date,     With silence walled and held undesecrate     By man or prying seraph: We are wise      As any god and goddess, who have wrung     From roseal fruitage of a bough forbidden,     The happy wine we drink, we drink unchidden,     Deep in the vales where vernal leaves are young,      And the first poppies loiter **** Though the breath     Of all the gods a bolted storm prepare,     And blood-red gloom of thunders blind the sun,      Shall we not turn, with clinging kisses there,     And, laughing, quaff some dreamless wine of death—     Triumphant still, in mere oblivion?            Thy beauty is the warmth and languor and passion of a tropic autumn,     Caressing all the senses,—     With light from skies of heavy azure,     With perfume from hidden orchids many-hued     That burn in the berylline dusk of palms      With the balmy kiss of tropic wind and wave,     And the songs of exotic birds that pass     In vermilion-flashing flight from isle to isle on a cobalt sea ***     O, sweetness in the inmost sense,     As of golden fruits that have grown by the waters of Lethe,     Or fragrance of purple lilies, crushed by the limbs of lovers,     In the shadow of a wood of cypress!***     Thou pervadest me with thy love,     As the dawn pervadeth a valley among mountains,     Or as opaline sunset filleth the amaranth-coloured sea      The desire of thy heart is upon me,     As a myrtle-scented wind from the isle of Cythera,     Where Aphrodite waits for Adonis,     Lying naked among the flag lilies by a pool of chrysolite      I inhale thy love     As the breath of hidden gardens of purple and scarlet,     Where Circe wanders,     Clad in a trailing gown whose colours are the gold of flame,     And the azure of the skies of autumn             Blind with your softly fallen hair,     I turn me from the twilight air      And, ah, the wordless tale of love     My lips upon your lips declare!      High stars are on the shadowy south—     Unseen, unknown: The urgent drouth     Of desert years in one deep kiss,     Would drain the sweetness of your mouth       Our straining arms that clasp and close,     Ache with an ecstasy that grows      And passion in our secret veins,     Like burning amber, glows and glows       This love is sweet to have and hold,     Better than sandalwood or gold,     After the barren, bitter loves,     The mad and mournful loves of old       This love is fortunate and fair,     Behind its veil of fallen hair      This love hath soft and clinging arms,     And a kind bosom, warm and bare             As the fumes of myrrh that mix with the odour of sandalwood     In a temple sacred to the goddess Lakme      As moonlight mingled with starlight     In the lucent azure of an autumn lake      As the sunset-rays of gold and crimson     That interlace on a couch of purple cloud—     Even so, Beloved,     Hath my love mingled with thine—     Even so, our souls are one,     Like two winds that meet in a valley of rose and lotus,     And fall to rest, uniting     As the still and fragrant air that lingers     On a bed of falling petals             My beloved is a well of clear waters,     To which I have come at noontide,     From the land of the Abomination of Desolation,     From the lion-dreaded waste,     Where nothing dwelleth but the inconsolable crying of an evil wind,     And the wandering realms and cities of the wide mirage      Where no one passeth except the sun,     Who walked like a terrible god through the hell of the brazen skies      And the dreadful cohorts of the constellations,     Who pass remote in alien years,     And clad with icy azures of unattainable distance       My beloved is a singing fountain,     Set in a wide oasis,     Between the frondage of the fruitful palm,     And the branches of the flowering myrtle:     The wind that bloweth thereon,     Hath lain in a vale of cassia and myrrh,     And caressed the vermilion blossoms of the pomegranate,     Whose red is the red of the lips of Astarte      A thousand nightingales are gathered there,     From all the gardens of lost romance      And plots of purple and silver lillies,     More beautiful than the meadows of mirage,     Revive the flowers of Sabean queens,     And the blossoms worn by all the princesses of legend ***     Ah, suffer me to dwell     Thereby, and forget the gilded cities of desire,     The domes of spectral gold,     That fled from horizon to horizon     Before me, and left my feet in the sinking vales and shifting         plains of the desert,     Whose waters are green with corruption,     And bitter with the dust and ashes of death      Ah, suffer me to sleep     In the balsam-laden shadows of the palm and myrtle,     By the ever-springing fountain!             With autumn and the flaring leaves our love must end—     Ere flauntful spring shall mock thy tears and my despair     With blossoms red or pale, some April bride may wear:     Now, while the weary, grey, forgetful heavens bend      Above the grief and languor of the dying lands,     In one last kiss shall meet and mingle and expire     The muted, last, remembering sighs of our desire      And on my face the flower-like burden of thy hands      Shall rest a little, and be taken tenderly,     And, ah, how lightly hence! And in thy golden eyes,     Thy love, and all the ashen glory of the skies,     Shall mingle, and as in a mirror lie for me             No more of gold and marble, nor of snow,     And sunlight, and vermilion, would I make     My vision and my symbols, nor would take     The auroral flame of some prismatic floe,     Nor iris of the frail and lunar bow,     Flung on the shafted waterfalls that wake     The night’s blue slumber in a shadowy lake ***     To body forth my fantasies, and show     Communicable mystery, I would find,     In adamantine darkness of the earth,     Metals untouched of any sun  and bring     Black azures of the nether sea to birth—     Or fetch the secret, splendid leaves, and blind,     Blue lilies of an Atlantean spring        Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams      I crown me with the million-coloured sun     Of secret worlds incredible, and take     Their trailing skies for vestment, when I soar,     Throned on the mounting zenith, and illume     The spaceward-flown horizons infinite      Like rampant monsters roaring for their glut,     The fiery-crested oceans rise and rise,     By jealous moons maleficently urged     To follow me forever  mountains horned     With peaks of sharpest adamant, and mawed     With sulphur-lit volcanoes lava-langued,     Usurp the skies with thunder, but in vain      And continents of serpent-shapen trees,     With slimy trunks that lengthen league by league,     Pursue my flight through ages spurned to fire     By that supreme ascendance  Sorcerers     And evil kings predominantly armed     With scrolls of fulvous dragon-skin, whereon     Are worm-like runes of ever-twisting flame,     Would stay me  and the sirens of the stars,     With foam-light songs from silver fragrance wrought,     Would lure me to their crystal reefs  and moons     Where viper-eyed, senescent devils dwell,     With antic gnomes abominably wise,     Heave up their icy horns across my way:     But naught deters me from the goal ordained     By suns, and aeons, and immortal wars,     And sung by moons and motes  the goal whose name     Is all the secret of forgotten glyphs,     By sinful gods in torrid rubies writ     For ending of a brazen book  the goal     Whereat my soaring ecstacy may stand,     In amplest heavens multiplied to hold     My hordes of thunder-vested avatars,     And Promethèan armies of my thought,     That brandish claspèd levins  There I call     My memories, intolerably clad     In light the peaks of paradise may wear,     And lead the Armageddon of my dreams,     Whose instant shout of triumph is become     Immensity’s own music: For their feet     Are founded on innumerable worlds,     Remote in alien epochs, and their arms     Upraised, are columns potent to exalt     With ease ineffable the countless thrones     Of all the gods that are and gods to be,     Or bear the seats of Asmadai and Set     Above the seventh paradise                                   Supreme     In culminant omniscience manifold,     And served by senses multitudinous,     Far-posted on the shifting walls of time,     With eyes that roam the star-unwinnowed fields     Of utter night and chaos, I convoke     The Babel of their visions, and attend     At once their myriad witness: I behold,     In Ombos, where the fallen Titans dwell,     With mountain-builded walls, and gulfs for moat,     The secret cleft that cunning dwarves have dug     Beneath an alp-like buttress  and I list,     Too late, the clang of adamantine gongs,     Dinned by their drowsy guardians, whose feet     Have felt the wasp-like sting of little knives,     Embrued with slobber of the basilisk,     Or juice of wounded upas  And I see,     In gardens of a crimson-litten world     The sacred flow’r with lips of purple flesh,     And silver-lashed, vermilion-lidded eyes     Of torpid azure  whom his furtive priests     At moonless eve in terror seek to slay,     With bubbling grails of sacrificial blood     That hide a hueless poison  And I read,     Upon the tongue of a forgotten sphinx,     The annuling word a spiteful demon wrote     With gall of slain chimeras  and I know     What pentacles the lunar wizards use,     That once allured the gulf-returning roc,     With ten great wings of furlèd storm, to pause     Midmost an alabaster mount  and there,     With boulder-weighted webs of dragons’-gut,     Uplift by cranes a captive giant built,     They wound the monstrous, moonquake-throbbing bird,     And plucked, from off his sabre-taloned feet,     Uranian sapphires fast in frozen blood,     With amethysts from Mars  I lean to read,     With slant-lipped mages, in an evil star,     The monstrous archives of a war that ran     Through wasted aeons, and the prophecy     Of wars renewed, that shall commemorate     Some enmity of wivern-headed kings,     Even to the brink of time  I know the blooms     Of bluish fungus, freaked with mercury,     That bloat within the craters of the moon,     And in one still, selenic hour have shrunk     To pools of slime and fetor  and I know     What clammy blossoms, blanched and cavern-grown,     Are proffered in Uranus to their gods     By mole-eyed peoples  and the livid seed     Of some black fruit a king in Saturn ate,     Which, cast upon his tinkling palace-floor,     Took root between the burnished flags, and now     Hath mounted, and become a hellish tree,     Whose lithe and hairy branches, lined with mouths,     Net like a hundred ropes his lurching throne,     And strain at starting pillars  I behold     The slowly-thronging corals, that usurp     Some harbour of a million-masted sea,     And sun them on the league-long wharves of gold—     Bulks of enormous crimson, kraken-limbed     And kraken-headed, lifting up as crowns     The octiremes of perished emperors,     And galleys fraught with royal gems, that sailed     From a sea-deserted haven                                  Swifter grow     The visions: Now a mighty city looms,     Hewn from a hill of purest cinnabar,     To domes and turrets like a sunrise thronged     With tier on tier of captive moons, half-drowned     In shifting erubescence  But whose hands     Were sculptors of its doors, and columns wrought     To semblance of prodigious blooms of old,     No eremite hath lingered there to say,     And no man comes to learn: For long ago     A prophet came, warning its timid king     Against the plague of lichens that had crept     Across subverted empires, and the sand     Of wastes that Cyclopean mountains ward      Which, slow and ineluctable, would come,     To take his fiery bastions and his fanes,     And quench his domes with greenish tetter  Now     I see a host of naked giants, armed     With horns of behemoth and unicorn,     Who wander, blinded by the clinging spells     Of hostile wizardry, and stagger on     To forests where the very leaves have eyes,     And ebonies like wrathful dragons roar     To teaks a-chuckle in the loathly gloom      Where coiled lianas lean, with serried fangs,     From writhing palms with swollen boles that moan      Where leeches of a scarlet moss have sucked     The eyes of some dead monster, and have crawled     To bask upon his azure-spotted spine      Where hydra-throated blossoms hiss and sing,     Or yawn with mouths that drip a sluggish dew,     Whose touch is death and slow corrosion  Then,     I watch a war of pigmies, met by night,     With pitter of their drums of parrot’s hide,     On plains with no horizon, where a god     Might lose his way for centuries  and there,     In wreathèd light, and fulgors all convolved,     A rout of green, enormous moons ascend,     With rays that like a shivering venom run     On inch-long swords of lizard-fang                                      Surveyed     From this my throne, as from a central sun,     The pageantries of worlds and cycles pass      Forgotten splendours, dream by dream unfold,     Like tapestry, and vanish  violet suns,     Or suns of changeful iridescence, bring     Their rays about me, like the coloured lights     Imploring priests might lift to glorify     The face of some averted god  the songs     Of mystic poets in a purple world,     Ascend to me in music that is made     From unconceivèd perfumes, and the pulse     Of love ineffable  the lute-players     Whose lutes are strung with gold of the utmost moon,     Call forth delicious languors, never known     Save to their golden kings  the sorcerers     Of hooded stars inscrutable to God,     Surrender me their demon-wrested scrolls,     Inscribed with lore of monstrous alchemies,     And awful transformations *** If I will,     I am at once the vision and the seer,     And mingle with my ever-streaming pomps,     And still abide their suzerain: I am     The neophyte who serves a nameless god,     Within whose fane the fanes of Hecatompylos     Were arks the Titan worshippers might bear,     Or flags to pave the threshold  or I am     The god himself, who calls the fleeing clouds     Into the nave where suns might congregate,     And veils the darkling mountain of his face     With fold on solemn fold  for whom the priests     Amass their monthly hecatomb of gems—     Opals that are a camel-cumbering load,     And monstrous alabraundines, won from war     With realms of hostile serpents  which arise,     Combustible, in vapours many-hued,     And myrrh-excelling perfumes  It is I,     The king, who holds with scepter-dropping hand     The helm of some great barge of chrysolite,     Sailing upon an amethystine sea     To isles of timeless summer: For the snows     Of hyperborean winter, and their winds,     Sleep in his jewel-builded capital,     Nor any charm of flame-wrought wizardry,     Nor conjured suns may rout them  so he flees,     With captive kings to urge his serried oars,     Hopeful of dales where amaranthine dawn     Hath never left the faintly sighing lote     And fields of lisping moly  Or I fare,     Impanoplied with azure diamond,     As hero of a quest Achernar lights,     To deserts filled with ever-wandering flames,     That feed upon the sullen marl, and soar     To wrap the slopes of mountains, and to leap,     With tongues intolerably lengthening,     That lick the blenchèd heavens  But there lives     (Secure as in a garden walled from wind)     A lonely flower by a placid well,     Midmost the flaring tumult of the flames,     That roar as roars the storm-possessèd sea,     Implacable forever: And within     That simple grail the blossom lifts, there lies     One drop of an incomparable dew,     Which heals the parchèd weariness of kings,     And cures the wound of wisdom  I am page     To an emperor who reigns ten thousand years,     And through his labyrinthine palace-rooms,     Through courts and colonnades and balconies     Wherein immensity itself is mazed,     I seek the golden gorget he hath lost,     On which the names of his conniving stars     Are writ in little sapphires  and I roam     For centuries, and hear the brazen clocks     Innumerably clang with such a sound     As brazen hammers make, by devils dinned     On tombs of all the dead  and nevermore     I find the gorget, but at length I find     A sealèd room whose nameless prisoner     Moans with a nameless torture, and would turn     To hell’s red rack as to a lilied couch     From that whereon they stretched him  and I find,     Prostrate upon a lotus-painted floor,     The loveliest of all beloved slaves     My emperor hath, and from her pulseless side     A serpent rises, whiter than the root     Of some venefic bloom in darkness grown,     And gazes up with green-lit eyes that seem     Like drops of cold, congealing poison ***                                  Hark!     What word was whispered in a tongue unknown,     In crypts of some impenetrable world?     Whose is the dark, dethroning secrecy     I cannot share, though I am king of suns     And king therewith of strong eternity,     Whose gnomons with their swords of shadow guard     My gates, and slay the intruder? Silence loads     The wind of ether, and the worlds are still     To hear the word that flees me  All my dreams     Fall like a rack of fuming vapours raised     To semblance by a necromant, and leave     Spirit and sense unthinkably alone,     Above a universe of shrouded stars,     And suns that wander, cowled with sullen gloom,     Like witches to a Sabbath *** Fear is born     In crypts below the nadir, and hath crawled     Reaching the floor of space and waits for wings     To lift it upward, like a hellish worm     Fain for the flesh of seraphs  Eyes that gleam,     But are not eyes of suns or galaxies,     Gather and throng to the base of darkness  flame     Behind some black, abysmal curtain burns,     Implacable, and fanned to whitest wrath     By raisèd wings that flail the whiffled gloom,     And make a brief and broken wind that moans,     As one who rides a throbbing rack  There is     A Thing that crouches, worlds and years remote,     Whose horns a demon sharpens, rasping forth     A note to shatter the donjon-keeps of time,     And crack the sphere of crystal *** All is dark     For ages, and my tolling heart suspends     Its clamour, as within the clutch of death,     Tightening with tense, hermetic rigours  Then,     In one enormous, million-flashing flame,     The stars unveil, the suns remove their cowls,     And beam to their responding planets  time     Is mine once more, and armies of its dreams     Rally to that insuperable throne,     Firmed on the central zenith                                 Now I seek     The meads of shining moly I had found     In some remoter vision, by a stream     No cloud hath ever tarnished  where the sun,     A gold Narcissus, loiters evermore     Above his golden image: But I find     A corpse the ebbing water will not keep,     With eyes like sapphires that have lain in hell,     And felt the hissing embers  and the flow’rs     About me turn to hooded serpents, swayed     By flutes of devils in a hellish dance,     Meet for the nod of Satan, when he reigns     Above the raging Sabbath, and is wooed     By sarabands of witches  But I turn     To mountains guarding with their horns of snow     The source of that befoulèd rill, and seek     A pinnacle where none but eagles climb,     And they with failing pennons  But in vain     I flee, for on that pylon of the sky,     Some curse hath turned the unprinted snow to flame—     Red fires that curl and cluster to my tread,     Trying the summit’s narrow cirque  And now,     I see a silver python far beneath—     Vast as a river that a fiend hath witched,     And forced to flow remèant in its course     To fountains whence it issued  Rapidly     It winds from slope to crumbling slope, and fills     Ravines and chasmal gorges, till the crags     Totter with coil on coil incumbent  Soon     It hath entwined the pinnacle I keep,     And gapes with a fanged, unfathomable maw,     Wherein great Typhon, and Enceladus,     Were orts of daily glut  But I am gone,     For at my call a hippogriff hath come,     And firm between his thunder-beating wings,     I mount the sheer cerulean walls of noon,     And see the earth, a spurnèd pebble, fall     Lost in the fields of nether stars—and seek     A planet where the outwearied wings of time     Might pause and furl for respite, or the plumes     Of death be stayed, and loiter in reprieve     Above some deathless lily: For therein,     Beauty hath found an avatar of flow’rs—     Blossoms that clothe it as a coloured flame,     From peak to peak, from pole to sullen pole,     And turn the skies to perfume  There I find     A lonely castle, calm and unbeset,     Save by the purple spears of amaranth,     And tender-sworded iris  Walls upbuilt     Of flushèd marble, wonderful with rose,     And domes like golden bubbles, and minarets     That take the clouds as coronal—these are mine,     For voiceless looms the peaceful barbican,     And the heavy-teethed portcullis hangs aloft     As if to smile a welcome  So I leave     My hippogriff to crop the magic meads,     And pass into a court the lilies hold,     And tread them to a fragrance that pursues     To win the portico, whose columns, carved     Of lazuli and amber, mock the palms     Of bright, Aidennic forests—capitalled     With fronds of stone fretted to airy lace,     Enfolding drupes that seem as tawny clusters     Of breasts of unknown houris  and convolved     With vines of shut and shadowy-leavèd flow’rs,     Like the dropt lids of women that endure     Some loin-dissolving rapture  Through a door     Enlaid with lilies twined luxuriously,     I enter, dazed and blinded with the sun,     And hear, in gloom that changing colours cloud,     A chuckle sharp as crepitating ice,     Upheaved and cloven by shoulders of the damned     Who strive in Antenora  When my eyes     Undazzle, and the cloud of colour fades,     I find me in a monster-guarded room,     Where marble apes with wings of griffins crowd     On walls an evil sculptor wrought, and beasts     Wherein the sloth and vampire-bat unite,     Pendulous by their toes of tarnished bronze,     Usurp the shadowy interval of lamps     That hang from ebon arches  Like a ripple,     Borne by the wind from pool to sluggish pool     In fields where wide Cocytus flows his bound,     A crackling smile around that circle runs,     And all the stone-wrought gibbons stare at me     With eyes that turn to glowing coals  A fear     That found no name in Babel, flings me on,     Breathless and faint with horror, to a hall     Within whose weary, self-reverting round,     The languid curtains, heavier than palls,     Unnumerably depict a weary king,     Who fain would cool his jewel-crusted hands     In lakes of emerald evening, or the fields     Of dreamless poppies pure with rain  I flee     Onward, and all the shadowy curtains shake     With tremors of a silken-sighing mirth,     And whispers of the innumerable king,     Breathing a tale of ancient pestilence,     Whose very words are vile contagion  Then     I reach a room where caryatids,     Carved in the form of tall, voluptuous Titan women,     Surround a throne of flowering ebony     Where creeps a vine of crystal  On the throne,     There lolls a wan, enormous Worm, whose bulk,     Tumid with all the rottenness of kings,     O’erflows its arms with fold on creasèd fold     Of fat obscenely bloating  Open-mouthed     He leans, and from his throat a score of tongues,     Depending like to wreaths of torpid vipers,     Drivel with phosphorescent slime, that runs     Down all his length of soft and monstrous folds,     And creeping among the flow’rs of ebony,     Lends them the life of tiny serpents  Now,     Ere the Horror ope those red and lashless slits     Of eyes that draw the gnat and midge, I turn,     And follow down a dusty hall, whose gloom,     Lined by the statues with their mighty limbs,     Ends in a golden-roofed balcony     Sphering the flowered horizon                                  Ere my heart     Hath hushed the panic tumult of its pulses,     I listen, from beyond the horizon’s rim,     A mutter faint as when the far simoon,     Mounting from unknown deserts, opens forth,     Wide as the waste, those wings of torrid night     That fling the doom of cities from their folds,     And musters in its van a thousand winds,     That with disrooted palms for besoms, rise     And sweep the sands to fury  As the storm,     Approaching, mounts and loudens to the ears     Of them that toil in fields of sesame,     So grows the mutter, and a shadow creeps     Above the gold horizon, like a dawn     Of darkness climbing sunward  Now they come,     A Sabbath of abominable shapes,     Led by the fiends and lamiae of worlds     That owned my sway aforetime! Cockatrice,     Python, tragelaphus, leviathan,     Chimera, martichoras, behemoth,     Geryon and sphinx, and hydra, on my ken     Arise as might some Afrite-builded city,     Consummate in the lifting of a lash,     With thundrous domes and sounding obelisks,     And towers of night and fire alternate! Wings     Of white-hot stone along the hissing wind,     Bear up the huge and furnace-hearted beasts     Of hells beyond Rutilicus  and things     Whose lightless length would mete the gyre of moons—     Born from the caverns of a dying sun,     Uncoil to the very zenith, half disclosed     From gulfs below the horizon  octopi     Like blazing moons with countless arms of fire,     Climb from the seas of ever-surging flame     That roll and roar through planets unconsumed,     Beating on coasts of unknown metals  beasts     That range the mighty worlds of Alioth, rise,     Aforesting the heavens with multitudinous horns,     Within whose maze the winds are lost  and borne     On cliff-like brows of plunging scolopendras,     The shell-wrought tow’rs of ocean-witches loom,     And griffin-mounted gods, and demons throned     On sable dragons, and the cockodrills     That bear the spleenful pygmies on their backs      And blue-faced wizards from the worlds of Saiph,     On whom Titanic scorpions fawn  and armies     That move with fronts reverted from the foe,     And strike athwart their shoulders at the shapes     Their shields reflect in crystal  and eidola     Fashioned within unfathomable caves     By hands of eyeless peoples  and the blind     And worm-shaped monsters of a sunless world,     With krakens from the ultimate abyss,     And Demogorgons of the outer dark,     Arising, shout with multitudinous thunders,     And threatening me with dooms ineffable     In words whereat the heavens leap to flame,     Advance on the magic palace! Thrown before,     For league on league, their blasting shadows blight     And eat like fire the amaranthine meads,     Leaving an ashen desert! In the palace,     I hear the apes of marble shriek and howl      And all the women-shapen columns moan,     Babbling with unknown terror  In my fear,     A monstrous dread unnamed in any hell,     I rise, and flee with the fleeing wind for wings,     And in a trice the magic palace reels,     And spiring to a single tow’r of flame,     Goes out, and leaves nor shard nor ember! Flown     Beyond the world, upon that fleeing wind,     I reach the gulf’s irrespirable verge,     Where fails the strongest storm for breath and fall,     Supportless, through the nadir-plunged gloom,     Beyond the scope and vision of the sun,     To other skies and systems  In a world     Deep-wooded with the multi-coloured fungi,     That soar to semblance of fantastic palms,     I fall as falls the meteor-stone, and break     A score of trunks to powder  All unhurt,     I rise, and through the illimitable woods,     Among the trees of flimsy opal, roam,     And see their tops that clamber, hour by hour,     To touch the suns of iris  Things unseen,     Whose charnel breath informs the tideless air     With spreading pools of fetor, follow me     Elusive past the ever-changing palms      And pittering moths, with wide and ashen wings,     Flit on before, and insects ember-hued,     Descending, hurtle through the gorgeous gloom,     And quench themselves in crumbling thickets  Heard     Far-off, the gong-like roar of beasts unknown     Resounds at measured intervals of time,     Shaking the riper trees to dust, that falls     In clouds of acrid perfume, stifling me     Beneath a pall of iris                                Now the palms     Grow far apart and lessen momently     To shrubs a dwarf might topple  Over them     I see an empty desert, all ablaze     With amethysts and rubies, and the dust     Of garnets or carnelians  On I roam,     Treading the gorgeous grit, that dazzles me     With leaping waves of endless rutilance,     Whereby the air is turned to a crimson gloom,     Through which I wander, blind as any Kobold      Till underfoot the griding sands give place     To stone or metal, with a massive ring     More welcome to mine ears than golden bells,     Or tinkle of silver fountains  When the gloom     Of crimson lifts, I stand upon the edge     Of a broad black plain of adamant, that reaches,     Level as a windless water, to the verge     Of all the world  and through the sable plain,     A hundred streams of shattered marble run,     And streams of broken steel, and streams of bronze,     Like to the ruin of all the wars of time,     To plunge, with clangour of timeless cataracts,     Adown the gulfs eternal                                      So I follow,     Between a river of steel and a river of bronze,     With ripples loud and tuneless as the clash     Of a million lutes  and come to the precipice     From which they fall, and make the mighty sound     Of a million swords that meet a million shields,     Or din of spears and armour in the wars     Of all the worlds and aeons: Far beneath,     They fall, through gulfs and cycles of the void,     And vanish like a stream of broken stars,     Into the nether darkness  nor the gods     Of any sun, nor demons of the gulf,     Will dare to know what everlasting sea     Is fed thereby, and mounts forevermore     With mighty tides unebbing                                  Lo, what cloud,     Or night of sudden and supreme eclipse,     Is on the suns of opal? At my side,     The rivers rail with a wan and ghostly gleam,     Through darkness falling as the night that falls     From mighty spheres extinguished! Turning now,     I see, betwixt the desert and the suns,     The poised wings of all the dragon-rout,     Far-flown in black occlusion thousand-fold     Through stars, and deeps, and devastated worlds,     Upon my trail of terror! Griffins, rocs,     And sluggish, dark chimeras, heavy-winged     After the ravin of dispeopled lands,     With harpies, and the vulture-birds of hell—     Hot from abominable feasts and fain     To cool their beaks and talons in my blood—     All, all have gathered, and the wingless rear,     With rank on rank of foul, colossal Worms,     Like pillars of embattled night and flame,     Looms on the wide horizon! From the van,     I hear the shriek of wyvers, loud and shrill     As tempests in a broken fane, and roar     Of sphinxes, like the unrelenting toll     Of bells from tow’rs infernal  Cloud on cloud,     They arch the zenith, and a dreadful wind     Falls from them like the wind before the storm      And in the wind my cloven garment streams,     And flutters in the face of all the void,     Even as flows a flaffing spirit, lost     On the Pit’s undying tempest! Louder grows     The thunder of the streams of stone and bronze —     Redoubled with the roar of torrent wings,     Inseparably mingled  Scarce I keep     My footing, in the gulfward winds of fear,     And mighty thunders, beating to the void     In sea-like waves incessant  and would flee     With them, and prove the nadir-founded night     Where fall the streams of ruin  but when I reach     The verge, and seek through sun-defeating gloom,     To measure with my gaze the dread descent,     I see a tiny star within the depths—     A light that stays me, while the wings of doom     Convene their thickening thousands: For the star     Increases, taking to its hueless orb,     With all the speed of horror-changèd dreams     The light as of a million million moons      And floating up through gulfs and glooms eclipsed,     It grows and grows, a huge white eyeless Face,     That fills the void and fills the universe,     And bloats against the limits of the world     With lips of flame that open ****                O winds that pass uncomforted     Through all the peacefulness of spring,     And tell the trees your sorrowing,     That they must mourn till ye are fled!      Think ye the Tyrian distance holds     The crystal of unquestioned sleep?     That those forgetful purples keep     No veiled, contentious greens and golds?      Half with communicated grief,     Half that they are not free to pass     With you across the flickering grass,     Mourns each inclined bough and leaf       And I, with soul disquieted,     Shall find within the haunted spring     No peace, till your strange sorrowing     Is down the Tyrian distance fled             In the green and flowerless garden I have dreamt,     Lying beneath perennial moons apart,     Whose cypress-builded bowr’s     And ivy-plighted myrtles none shall part       In the funereal maze of larch and laurel,     Across white lawns, athwart the spectral mountains,     Seen through the sighing haze     Of all the high and moon-suspended fountains       With feet enshaded by the fruitless green     Of summer trees that bear no summer blossom      With wintry lusters laid     Upon the mounded marble of thy bosom,      Thou dost await, O mournful, enigmatic     Image of love-bewildered Artemis,     Whose tender lips too late,     Or all too soon, have sought the wounding kiss         ,           Love is not yours, love is not mine:     It is the tranquil twilight heaven     Through which our pauseless feet are driven     Into the vast and desert noon       Love is not mine, love is not yours:     It is a flying fire that passes,     Perishing on the blind morasses,     After the frail and perished moon                 In a lost land, that only dreams have known,     Where flaming suns walk naked and alone      Among horizons bright as molten brass,     And glowing heavens like furnaces of glass,     It rears, with dome and tower manifold,     Rich as a dawn of amarant and gold,     Or gorgeous as the Phoenix, born of fire,     And soaring from an opalescent pyre,     Sheer to the zenith  Like some anademe     Of Titan jewels turned to flame and dream,     The city crowns the far horizon-light,     Over the flowered meads of damassin ***     A desert isle of madreperl! wherein     The thurifer and opal-fruited palm,     And heaven-thronging minarets becalm     The seas of azure wind ****            She is large and matronly      And rather dirty,      A little sardonic-looking, as if domesticity had           driven her to it        Though what she does, except lay four eggs at           random in the garden once a year      And put up with her husband,      I don't know        She likes to eat        She hurries up, striding reared on long uncanny           legs,      When food is going       Oh yes, she can make haste when she likes        She snaps the soft bread from my hand in great           mouthfuls,      Opening her rather pretty wedge of an iron,           pristine face      Into an enormously wide-beaked mouth      Like sudden curved scissors,      And gulping at more than she can swallow, and           working her thick, soft tongue,      And having the bread hanging over her chin        O Mistress, Mistress,      Reptile mistress,      Your eye is very dark, very bright,      And it never softens      Although you watch        She knows,      She knows well enough to come for food,      Yet she sees me not       Her bright eye sees, but not me, not anything,      Sightful, sightless, seeing and visionless,      Reptile mistress        Taking bread in her curved, gaping, toothless           mouth,      She has no qualm when she catches my finger in           her steel overlapping gums,      But she hangs on, and my shout and my shrinking           are nothing to her,      She does not even know she is nipping me with           her curved beak       Snake-like she draws at my finger, while I drag           it in horror away        Mistress, reptile mistress,      You are almost too large, I am almost frightened       He is much smaller,      Dapper beside her,      And ridiculously small        Her laconic eye has an earthy, materialistic look,      His, poor darling, is almost fiery        His wimple, his blunt-prowed face,      His low forehead, his skinny neck, his long,           scaled, striving legs,      So striving, striving,      Are all more delicate than she,      And he has a cruel scar on his shell        Poor darling, biting at her feet,      Running beside her like a dog, biting her earthy,           splay feet,      Nipping her ankles,      Which she drags apathetic away, though without           retreating into her shell        Agelessly silent,      And with a grim, reptile determination,      Cold,  voiceless  age-after-age  behind him,           serpents' long obstinacy      Of horizontal persistence        Little old man      Scuffling beside her, bending down, catching his           opportunity,      Parting his steel-trap face, so suddenly, and           seizing her scaly ankle,      And hanging grimly on,      Letting go at last as she drags away,      And closing his steel-trap face        His steel-trap, stoic, ageless, handsome face       Alas, what a fool he looks in this scuffle        And how he feels it!       The lonely rambler, the stoic, dignified stalker      through chaos,      The immune, the animate,      Enveloped in isolation,      Forerunner       Now look at him!       Alas, the spear is through the side of his isolation       His adolescence saw him crucified into sex,      Doomed, in the long crucifixion of desire, to seek           his consummation beyond himself       Divided into passionate duality,      He, so finished and immune, now broken into           desirous fragmentariness,      Doomed to make an intolerable fool of himself      In his effort toward completion again        Poor little earthy house-inhabiting Osiris,      The mysterious bull tore him at adolescence into           pieces,      And he must struggle after reconstruction,           ignominiously        And so behold him following the tail      Of that mud-hovel of his slowly-rambling spouse,      Like some unhappy bull at the tail of a cow,      But with more than bovine, grim,  earth-dank           persistence,      Suddenly seizing the ugly ankle as she stretches           out to walk,      Roaming over the sods,      Or, if it happen to show, at her pointed, heavy tail      Beneath the low-dropping back-board of her shell        Their two shells like doomed boats bumping,      Hers huge, his small       Their   splay   feet   rambling   and   rowing   like           paddles,      And stumbling mixed up in one another,      In the race of love--      Two tortoises,      She huge, he small        She seems earthily apathetic,      And he has a reptile's awful persistence        I heard a woman pitying her, pitying the Mère           Tortue       While I, I pity Monsieur       "He pesters her and torments her," said the           woman       How much more is _he_ pestered and tormented,           say I        What can he do?      He is dumb, he is visionless,      Conceptionless        His black, sad-lidded eye sees but beholds not      As her earthen mound moves on,      But he catches the folds of vulnerable, leathery           skin,      Nail-studded, that shake beneath her shell,      And drags at these with his beak,      Drags and drags and bites,      While she pulls herself free, and rows her dull           mound along               Making his advances      He does not look at her, nor sniff at her,      No, not even sniff at her, his nose is blank        Only he senses the vulnerable folds of skin      That work beneath her while she sprawls along      In her ungainly pace,      Her folds of skin that work and row      Beneath  the   earth-soiled  hovel  in  which  she           moves        And so he strains beneath her housey walls      And catches her trouser-legs in his beak      Suddenly, or her skinny limb,      And strange and grimly drags at her      Like a dog,      Only agelessly silent, with a reptile's awful      persistency        Grim, gruesome gallantry, to which he is doomed       Dragged out of an eternity of silent isolation      And doomed to partiality, partial being,      Ache, and want of being,      Want,      Self-exposure, hard humiliation, need to add           himself on to her        Born to walk alone,      Forerunner,      Now suddenly distracted into this mazy           sidetrack,      This awkward, harrowing pursuit,      This grim necessity from within        Does she know      As she moves eternally slowly away?      Or is he driven against her with a bang, like a bird           flying in the dark against a window,      All knowledgeless?       The awful concussion,      And the still more awful need to persist, to follow,           follow, continue,      Driven,   after  aeons  of  pristine,   fore-god-like           singleness and oneness,      At the end of some mysterious, red-hot iron,      Driven away from himself into her tracks,      Forced to crash against her        Stiff, gallant, irascible, crook-legged reptile,      Little gentleman,      Sorry plight,      We ought to look the other way        Save that, having come with you so far,      We will go on to the end                                      J              I thought he was dumb,      I said he was dumb,      Yet I've heard him cry        First faint scream,      Out of life's unfathomable dawn,      Far off, so far, like a madness, under the horizon's           dawning rim,      Far, far off, far scream        Tortoise _in extremis_        Why were we crucified into sex?       Why were we not left rounded off, and finished           in ourselves,      As we began,      As he certainly began, so perfectly alone?       A far, was-it-audible scream,      Or did it sound on the plasm direct?       Worse than the cry of the new-born,      A scream,      A yell,      A shout,      A pæan,      A death-agony,      A birth-cry,      A submission,      All tiny, tiny, far away, reptile under the first      dawn        War-cry,  triumph,  acute-delight,  death-scream           reptilian,      Why was the veil torn?       The silken shriek of the soul's torn membrane?      The male soul's membrane      Torn with a shriek half music, half horror        Crucifixion        Male tortoise, cleaving behind the hovel-wall of           that dense female,      Mounted and tense, spread-eagle, out-reaching           out of the shell      In tortoise-nakedness,      Long neck, and long vulnerable limbs extruded,      spread-eagle over her house-roof,      And the deep, secret, all-penetrating tail curved           beneath her walls,      Reaching  and gripping  tense,  more  reaching           anguish in uttermost tension      Till suddenly, in the spasm of coition, tupping           like a jerking leap, and oh!      Opening its clenched face from his outstretched           neck      And giving that fragile yell, that scream,      Super-audible,      From his pink, cleft, old-man's mouth,      Giving up the ghost,      Or screaming in Pentecost, receiving the ghost        His scream, and his moment's subsidence,      The moment of eternal silence,      Yet unreleased, and after the moment, the      sudden, startling jerk of coition, and at once      The inexpressible faint yell--      And so on, till the last plasm of my body was           melted back      To the primeval rudiments of life, and the secret        So he tups, and screams      Time after time that frail, torn scream      After each jerk, the longish interval,      The tortoise eternity,      Agelong, reptilian persistence,      Heart-throb, slow heart-throb, persistent for the           next spasm        I remember, when I was a boy,      I heard the scream of a frog, which was caught           with his foot in the mouth of an up-starting           snake       I remember when I first heard bull-frogs break           into sound in the spring       I remember hearing a wild goose out of the throat           of night      Cry loudly, beyond the lake of waters       I remember the first time, out of a bush in the           darkness, a nightingale's piercing cries and           gurgles startled the depths of my soul       I remember the scream of a rabbit as I went           through a wood at midnight       I remember the heifer in her heat, blorting and           blorting through the hours, persistent and           irrepressible       I remember my first terror hearing the howl of           weird, amorous cats       I remember the scream of a terrified, injured           horse, the sheet-lightning      And running away from the sound of a woman in           labor, something like an owl whooing,      And listening inwardly to the first bleat of a           lamb,      The first wail of an infant,      And my mother singing to herself,      And the first tenor singing of the passionate           throat of a young collier, who has long since           drunk himself to death,      The first elements of foreign speech      On wild dark lips        And more than all these,      And less than all these,      This last,      Strange, faint coition yell      Of the male tortoise at extremity,      Tiny from under the very edge of the farthest           far-off horizon of life        The cross,      The wheel on which our silence first is broken,      Sex, which breaks up our integrity, our single           inviolability, our deep silence      Tearing a cry from us        Sex, which breaks us into voice, sets us calling           across the deeps, calling, calling for the           complement,      Singing, and calling, and singing again, being           answered, having found        Torn, to become whole again, after long seeking           for what is lost,      The same cry from the tortoise as from Christ,           the Osiris-cry of abandonment,      That which is whole, torn asunder,      That which is in part, finding its whole again           throughout the universe            I      I remember, I remember       The house where I was born,     The little window where the sun       Came peeping in at morn      He never came a wink too soon,       Nor brought too long a day,     But now, I often wish the night       Had borne my breath away!         I remember, I remember       The roses, red and white,     The vi'lets, and the lily-cups,       Those flowers made of light!     The lilacs where the robin built,       And where my brother set     The laburnum on his birthday,--       The tree is living yet!         I remember, I remember       Where I was used to swing,     And thought the air must rush as fresh       To swallows on the wing      My spirit flew in feathers then,       That is so heavy now,     And summer pools could hardly cool       The fever on my brow!         I remember, I remember       The fir trees dark and high      I used to think their slender tops       Were close against the sky:     It was a childish ignorance,       But now 'tis little joy     To know I'm farther off from heav'n       Than when I was a boy                                 T        _ _       Little Lamb, who made thee?     Dost thou know who made thee,     Gave thee life, and bid thee feed     By the stream and o'er the mead      Gave thee clothing of delight,     Softest clothing, woolly, bright      Gave thee such a tender voice     Making all the vales rejoice        Little Lamb, who made thee?       Dost thou know who made thee?      Little Lamb, I'll tell thee      Little Lamb, I'll tell thee      He is called by thy name,     For He calls Himself a Lamb:--     He is meek and He is mild      He became a little child      I a child, and thou a lamb,     We are called by His name        Little Lamb, God bless thee        Little Lamb, God bless thee                                  W        __       The sun descending in the west,       The evening star does shine      The birds are silent in their nest,       And I must seek for mine   [Illustration]      The moon, like a flower     In heaven's high bower,     With silent delight     Sits and smiles on the night       Farewell, green fields and happy groves,       Where flocks have ta'en delight      Where lambs have nibbled, silent moves       The feet of angels bright          Unseen, they pour blessing,         And joy without ceasing,         On each bud and blossom,         And each sleeping bosom       They look in every thoughtless nest,       Where birds are cover'd warm,     They visit caves of every beast,       To keep them all from harm:--         If they see any weeping         That should have been sleeping,         They pour sleep on their head,         And sit down by their bed                                  W        _ A   ''  A  _       A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you,       Well fed, and at his ease,     Should wiser be than to pursue       Each trifle that he sees       But you have killed a tiny bird,       Which flew not till to-day,     Against my orders, whom you heard       Forbidding you the prey       Nor did you kill that you might eat,       And ease a doggish pain,     For him, though chased with furious heat,       You left where he was slain       Nor was he of the thievish sort,       Or one whom blood allures,     But innocent was all his sport       Whom you have torn for yours   [Illustration]      My dog! what remedy remains,       Since, teach you all I can,     I see you, after all my pains,       So much resemble man?   'S       Sir, when I flew to seize the bird       In spite of your command,     A louder voice than yours I heard,       And harder to withstand       You cried--'Forbear!'--but in my breast       A mightier cried--'Proceed!'--     'Twas Nature, sir, whose strong behest       Impell'd me to the deed       Yet much as Nature I respect,       I ventured once to break     (As you perhaps may recollect)       Her precept for your sake       And when your linnet on a day,       Passing his prison door,     Had flutter'd all his strength away,       And panting pressed the floor       Well knowing him a sacred thing,       Not destined to my tooth,     I only kiss'd his ruffled wing,       And lick'd the feathers smooth       Let my obedience then excuse       My disobedience now,     Nor some reproof yourself refuse       From your aggrieved Bow-wow       If killing birds be such a crime,       (Which I can hardly see),     What think you, sir, of killing Time       With verse address'd to me?                                W        _   , _       Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:       And, when I crossed the wild,     I chanced to see at break of day       The solitary child       No mate, no comrade Lucy knew        She dwelt on a wide moor,     --The sweetest thing that ever grew       Beside a human door!      You yet may spy the fawn at play,       The hare upon the green      But the sweet face of Lucy Gray       Will never more be seen       'To-night will be a stormy night--       You to the town must go      And take a lantern, Child, to light       Your mother through the snow '  [Illustration]      'That, Father! will I gladly do:       'Tis scarcely afternoon--     The minster-clock has just struck two,       And yonder is the moon!'      At this the Father raised his hook,       And snapped a faggot-band      He plied his work --and Lucy took       The lantern in her hand       Not blither is the mountain roe:       With many a wanton stroke     Her feet disperse the powdery snow,       That rises up like smoke       The storm came on before its time:       She wandered up and down      And many a hill did Lucy climb,       But never reached the town   [Illustration]      The wretched parents all that night       Went shouting far and wide      But there was neither sound nor sight       To serve them for a guide       At day-break on a hill they stood       That overlooked the moor      And thence they saw the bridge of wood,       A furlong from their door       They wept--and, turning homeward, cried,       'In heaven we all shall meet!'     --When in the snow the mother spied       The print of Lucy's feet       Then downwards from the steep hill's edge       They tracked the footmarks small      And through the broken hawthorn hedge,       And by the long stone wall       And then an open field they crossed:       The marks were still the same      They tracked them on, nor ever lost        And to the bridge they came       They followed from the snowy bank       Those footmarks, one by one,     Into the middle of the plank        And further there were none!      --Yet some maintain that to this day       She is a living child      That you may see sweet Lucy Gray       Upon the lonesome wild       O'er rough and smooth she trips along,       And never looks behind      And sings a solitary song       That whistles in the wind                               W        _ _       Waken, lords and ladies gay!     On the mountain dawns the day      All the jolly chase is here,     With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear!     Hounds are in their couples yelling,     Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling      Merrily, merrily, mingle they,     'Waken, lords and ladies gay '  [Illustration]      Waken, lords and ladies gay!     The mist has left the mountain grey,     Springlets in the dawn are steaming,     Diamonds on the brake are gleaming      And foresters have busy been,     To track the buck in thicket green      Now we come to chant our lay,     'Waken, lords and ladies gay '      Waken, lords and ladies gay!     To the greenwood haste away      We can show you where he lies,     Fleet of foot, and tall of size      We can show the marks he made,     When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd      You shall see him brought to bay--     'Waken, lords and ladies gay '      Louder, louder chant the lay,     Waken, lords and ladies gay!     Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,     Run a course as well as we      Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,     Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?     Think of this, and rise with day,     Gentle lords and ladies gay!                              W        _ 'S _       A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,       Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!     And I'll give thee a silver pound,       To row us o'er the ferry '      'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,       This dark and stormy water?'     'O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,       And this Lord Ullin's daughter --      'And fast before her father's men       Three days we've fled together,     For should he find us in the glen,       My blood would stain the heather       'His horsemen hard behind us ride        Should they our steps discover,     Then who will cheer my bonny bride       When they have slain her lover?'      Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,       'I'll go, my chief--I'm ready      It is not for your silver bright,       But for your winsome lady:      'And by my word! the bonny bird       In danger shall not tarry      So though the waves are raging white,       I'll row you o'er the ferry '--      By this the storm grew loud apace,       The water-wraith was shrieking [1]     And in the scowl of heaven each face       Grew dark as they were speaking       But still as wilder blew the wind,       And as the night grew drearer,     Adown the glen rode armèd men,       Their trampling sounded nearer --      'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,       'Though tempests round us gather      I'll meet the raging of the skies,       But not an angry father '--      The boat has left a stormy land,       A stormy sea before her,--     When, oh! too strong for human hand,       The tempest gather'd o'er her       And still they row'd amidst the roar       Of waters fast prevailing:     Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,       His wrath was changed to wailing --      For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,       His child he did discover:--     One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,       And one was round her lover       'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief,       'Across this stormy water:     And I'll forgive your Highland chief,       My daughter!--oh my daughter!'--  [Illustration]      'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,       Return or aid preventing --     The waters wild went o'er his child,--       And he was left lamenting                               T     [1] The evil spirit of the waters      _ -_       When my mother died I was very young,     And my father sold me while yet my tongue     Could scarcely cry, '_'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!_'     So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep       There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,     That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shaved  so I said,     'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,     You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair '      And so he was quiet: and that very night,     As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight,     That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,     Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black       And by came an angel, who had a bright key,     And he open'd the coffins, and set them all free      Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,     And wash in a river, and shine in the sun       Then, naked and white, all their bags left behind,     They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind      And the angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,     He'd have God for his father, and never want joy       And so Tom awoke  and we rose in the dark,     And got with our bags and our brushes to work      Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:     So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm                                               W        _'S _   I      Hear what Highland Nora said,--     'The Earlie's son I will not wed,     Should all the race of nature die,     And none be left but he and I      For all the gold, for all the gear,     And all the lands both far and near,     That ever valour lost or won,     I would not wed the Earlie's son '  [Illustration]         'A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,     'Are lightly made, and lightly broke      The heather on the mountain's height     Begins to bloom in purple light      The frost-wind soon shall sweep away     That lustre deep from glen and brae      Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,     May blithely wed the Earlie's son '--         'The swan,' she said, 'the lake's clear breast     May barter for the eagle's nest      The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,     Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn      Our kilted clans, when blood is high,     Before their foes may turn and fly      But I, were all these marvels done,     Would never wed the Earlie's son '         Still in the water-lily's shade     Her wonted nest the wild-swan made      Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,     Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river      To shun the clash of foeman's steel,     No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel:     But Nora's heart is lost and won,     --She's wedded to the Earlie's son!                                   W        _  _       Fair stood the wind for France,     When we our sails advance,     Nor now to prove our chance         Longer will tarry      But putting to the main,     At Caux, the mouth of Seine,     With all his martial train,         Landed King Harry       And, taking many a fort,     Furnished in warlike sort,     Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt         In happy hour,     (Skirmishing day by day,     With those oppose his way)     Where the French general lay         With all his power       Which in his height of pride,     King Henry to deride,     His ransom to provide         To the king sending      Which he neglects the while,     As from a nation vile,     Yet with an angry smile         Their fall portending,  [Illustration]      And, turning to his men,     Quoth our brave Henry then:     Though they to one be ten,         Be not amazèd!     Yet have we well begun      Battles so bravely won,     Have ever to the sun         By fame been raisèd       And for myself (quoth he),--     This my full rest shall be,     England ne'er mourn for me,         Nor more esteem me --     Victor I will remain,     Or on this earth lie slain:     Never shall she sustain         Loss to redeem me       Poitiers and Cressy tell,     When most their pride did swell,     Under our swords they fell          No less our skill is     Than when our grandsire great,     Claiming the regal seat,     By many a warlike feat         Lopp'd the French lilies       The Duke of York so dread     The eager vanward led,     With the main Henry sped,         Amongst his henchmen      Exceter had the rear,     A braver man not there,--     O Lord! how hot they were,         On the false Frenchmen!      They now to fight are gone:     Armour on armour shone,     Drum now to drum did groan--         To hear was wonder      That with the cries they make,     The very earth did shake      Trumpet to trumpet spake--         Thunder to thunder       Well it thine age became,     O noble Erpingham!     Which didst the signal aim         To our hid forces,--     When from a meadow by,     Like a storm suddenly,     The English archery         Stuck the French horses       With Spanish yew so strong,     Arrows a cloth-yard long,     That like to serpents stung,         Piercing the weather,--     None from his fellow starts,     But, playing manly parts,     And like true English hearts         Stuck close together       When down their bows they threw,     And forth their bilboes drew,     And on the French they flew,         Not one was tardy      Arms from the shoulders sent,     Scalps to the teeth were rent,     Down the French peasants went,--         Our men were hardy       This while our noble king,     His broadsword brandishing,     Into the host did fling,         As to o'erwhelm it,     And many a deep wound lent,     His arms with blood besprent,     And many a cruel dent         Bruizèd his helmet       Gloster, that duke so good,     Next of the royal blood,     For famous England stood,         With his brave brother      Clarence, in steel so bright,     Though but a maiden knight     Yet in that furious fight         Scarce such another       Warwick in blood did wade      Oxford the foe invade,     And cruel slaughter made         Still as they ran up      Suffolk his axe did ply      Beaumont and Willoughby     Bare them right doughtily,         Ferrars and Fanhope   [Illustration]      Upon Saint Crispin's day     Fought was this noble fray,     Which fame did not delay         To England to carry      O when shall Englishmen,     With such acts fill a pen,     Or England breed again         Such a King Harry?                          M        _   _  A     I      Ye Mariners of England!     That guard our native seas      Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,     The battle and the breeze!     Your glorious standard launch again     To meet another foe!     And sweep through the deep,     While the stormy tempests blow      While the battle rages loud and long,     And the stormy tempests blow          The spirits of your fathers     Shall start from every wave!--     For the deck it was their field of fame,     And Ocean was their grave:     Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,     Your manly hearts shall glow,     As ye sweep through the deep,     While the stormy tempests blow     While the battle rages loud and long,     And the stormy tempests blow          Britannia needs no bulwark,     No towers along the steep      Her march is o'er the mountain-waves,     Her home is on the deep      With thunders from her native oak     She quells the floods below,--     As they roar on the shore,     When the stormy tempests blow      When the battle rages loud and long,     And the stormy tempests blow   [Illustration:       ]         The meteor flag of England     Shall yet terrific burn      Till danger's troubled night depart,     And the star of peace return      Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!     Our song and feast shall flow     To the fame of your name,     When the storm has ceased to blow      When the fiery fight is heard no more,     And the storm has ceased to blow                                  T        _    _       With sweetest milk and sugar first     I it at my own fingers nursed      And as it grew, so every day     It wax'd more white and sweet than they      It had so sweet a breath! and oft     I blush'd to see its foot more soft     And white, shall I say, than my hand?     Nay, any lady's of the land!       It is a wond'rous thing how fleet     'Twas on those little silver feet:     With what a pretty skipping grace     It oft would challenge me the race      And when 't had left me far away     'Twould stay, and run again, and stay,     For it was nimbler much than hinds      And trod as if on the four winds       I have a garden of my own,     But so with roses overgrown,     And lilies, that you would it guess     To be a little wilderness,     And all the spring-time of the year     It only loved to be there      Among the beds of lilies I     Have sought it oft, where it should lie      Yet could not, till itself would rise,     Find it, although before mine eyes      For, in the flaxen lilies' shade     It like a bank of lilies laid      Upon the roses it would feed,     Until its lips e'en seem'd to bleed      And then to me 'twould boldly trip,     And print those roses on my lip      But all its chief delight was still     On roses thus itself to fill      And its pure virgin limbs to fold     In whitest sheets of lilies cold      Had it lived long, it would have been     Lilies without, roses within                              A     [Illustration]     _ 'S _       Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,       And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky      And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,       The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die       When reposing that night on my pallet of straw       By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,     At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw        And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again       Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array       Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track:     'Twas Autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way       To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back       I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft       In life's morning march, when my bosom was young      I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,       And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung       Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore       From my home and my weeping friends never to part      My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,       And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart       'Stay--stay with us!--rest!--thou art weary and worn!'--       And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay --     But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,       And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away                                                 T        _ _       John Gilpin was a citizen       Of credit and renown,     A train-band Captain eke was he       Of famous London town       John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear,       Though wedded we have been     These twice ten tedious years, yet we       No holiday have seen       To-morrow is our wedding-day,       And we will then repair     Unto the Bell at Edmonton,       All in a chaise and pair       My sister and my sister's child,       Myself, and children three,     Will fill the chaise  so you must ride       On horseback after we       He soon replied,--I do admire       Of womankind but one,     And you are she, my dearest dear,       Therefore it shall be done       I am a linendraper bold,       As all the world doth know,     And my good friend, the Callender,       Will lend his horse to go       Quoth Mistress Gilpin,--That's well said        And for that wine is dear,     We will be furnish'd with our own,       Which is both bright and clear       John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife        O'erjoy'd was he to find     That though on pleasure she was bent,       She had a frugal mind       The morning came, the chaise was brought,       But yet was not allow'd     To drive up to the door, lest all       Should say that she was proud       So three doors off the chaise was stay'd,       Where they did all get in,     Six precious souls, and all agog       To dash through thick and thin       Smack went the whip, round went the wheels        Were never folks so glad,     The stones did rattle underneath,       As if Cheapside were mad       John Gilpin at his horse's side,       Seized fast the flowing mane,     And up he got in haste to ride,       But soon came down again       For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he,       His journey to begin,     When turning round his head he saw       Three customers come in       So down he came, for loss of time       Although it grieved him sore,     Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,       Would trouble him much more       'Twas long before the customers       Were suited to their mind,     When Betty screaming came downstairs,       The wine is left behind       Good lack! quoth he, yet bring it me,       My leathern belt likewise     In which I bear my trusty sword       When I do exercise       Now Mistress Gilpin, careful soul,       Had two stone bottles found,     To hold the liquor that she loved,       And keep it safe and sound       Each bottle had a curling ear,       Through which the belt he drew,     And hung a bottle on each side       To make his balance true       Then over all, that he might be       Equipp'd from top to toe,     His long red cloak well-brush'd and neat,       He manfully did throw       Now see him mounted once again       Upon his nimble steed,     Full slowly pacing o'er the stones,       With caution and good heed       But finding soon a smoother road       Beneath his well-shod feet,     The snorting beast began to trot,       Which gall'd him in his seat       So, Fair and softly! John he cried,       But John he cried in vain      That trot became a gallop soon,       In spite of curb and rein       So stooping down, as needs he must       Who cannot sit upright,     He grasp'd the mane with both his hands       And eke with all his might       His horse, who never in that sort       Had handled been before,     What thing upon his back had got       Did wonder more and more       Away went Gilpin neck or nought,       Away went hat and wig      He little dreamt, when he set out,       Of running such a rig       The wind did blow, the cloak did fly,       Like streamer long and gay,     Till, loop and button failing both,       At last it flew away       Then might all people well discern       The bottles he had slung      A bottle swinging at each side       As hath been said or sung       The dogs did bark, the children scream'd,       Up flew the windows all,     And every soul cried out, Well done!       As loud as he could bawl       Away went Gilpin--who but he?       His fame soon spread around,     He carries weight, he rides a race,       'Tis for a thousand pound       And still as fast as he drew near,       'Twas wonderful to view     How in a trice the turnpike-men       Their gates wide open threw       And now as he went bowing down       His reeking head full low,     The bottles twain behind his back       Were shatter'd at a blow       Down ran the wine into the road       Most piteous to be seen,     Which made his horse's flanks to smoke       As they had basted been       But still he seem'd to carry weight,       With leathern girdle braced,     For all might see the bottle-necks       Still dangling at his waist       Thus all through merry Islington       These gambols he did play,     And till he came unto the Wash       Of Edmonton so gay       And there he threw the Wash about       On both sides of the way,     Just like unto a trundling mop,       Or a wild-goose at play       At Edmonton his loving wife       From the balcòny spied     Her tender husband, wondering much       To see how he did ride       Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house--       They all at once did cry,     The dinner waits, and we are tired        Said Gilpin--So am I!      But yet his horse was not a whit       Inclined to tarry there,     For why? his owner had a house       Full ten miles off, at Ware       So like an arrow swift he flew       Shot by an archer strong,     So did he fly--which brings me to       The middle of my song       Away went Gilpin, out of breath,       And sore against his will,     Till at his friend the Callender's       His horse at last stood still       The Callender, amazed to see       His neighbour in such trim,     Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate,       And thus accosted him--      What news? what news? your tidings tell,       Tell me you must and shall--     Say, why bareheaded you are come,       Or why you come at all?      Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,       And loved a timely joke,     And thus unto the Callender       In merry guise he spoke--      I came because your horse would come        And if I well forbode,     My hat and wig will soon be here,       They are upon the road       The Callender, right glad to find       His friend in merry pin,     Return'd him not a single word,       But to the house went in       Whence straight he came with hat and wig,       A wig that flow'd behind,     A hat not much the worse for wear,       Each comely in its kind       He held them up, and in his turn       Thus show'd his ready wit,       My head is twice as big as yours,       They therefore needs must fit       But let me scrape the dirt away,       That hangs upon your face      And stop and eat, for well you may       Be in a hungry case       Said John--It is my wedding-day,       And all the world would stare,     If wife should dine at Edmonton       And I should dine at Ware       So, turning to his horse, he said,       I am in haste to dine,     'Twas for your pleasure you came here,       You shall go back for mine       Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast!       For which he paid full dear,     For while he spake a braying ass       Did sing most loud and clear       Whereat his horse did snort as he       Had heard a lion roar,     And gallop'd off with all his might,       As he had done before       Away went Gilpin, and away       Went Gilpin's hat and wig      He lost them sooner than at first,       For why? they were too big       Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw       Her husband posting down     Into the country far away,       She pull'd out half-a-crown       And thus unto the youth she said,       That drove them to the Bell,     This shall be yours, when you bring back       My husband safe and well       The youth did ride, and soon did meet       John coming back amain,     Whom in a trice he tried to stop       By catching at his rein       But not performing what he meant,       And gladly would have done,     The frighten'd steed he frighten'd more       And made him faster run       Away went Gilpin, and away       Went postboy at his heels,     The postboy's horse right glad to miss       The lumbering of the wheels       Six gentlemen upon the road       Thus seeing Gilpin fly,     With postboy scampering in the rear,       They raised the hue and cry       Stop thief!--stop thief!--a highwayman!       Not one of them was mute,     And all and each that pass'd that way       Did join in the pursuit       And now the turnpike gates again       Flew open in short space,     The toll-men thinking as before       That Gilpin rode a race       And so he did and won it too,       For he got first to town,     Nor stopp'd till where he had got up       He did again get down       --Now let us sing, Long live the king,       And Gilpin long live he,     And when he next doth ride abroad,       May I be there to see!                                W        __       On Linden, when the sun was low,     All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow      And dark as winter was the flow         Of Iser, rolling rapidly       But Linden saw another sight,     When the drum beat, at dead of night     Commanding fires of death to light         The darkness of her scenery       By torch and trumpet fast array'd     Each horseman drew his battle-blade,     And furious every charger neigh'd         To join the dreadful revelry       Then shook the hills with thunder riven      Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,     And louder than the bolts of Heaven,         Far flash'd the red artillery       But redder yet that light shall glow     On Linden's hills of stainèd snow      And bloodier yet the torrent flow         Of Iser, rolling rapidly       'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun     Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,     Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,         Shout in their sulph'rous canopy       The combat deepens  On, ye brave     Who rush to glory, or the grave!     Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,         And charge with all thy chivalry!      Few, few, shall part, where many meet!     The snow shall be their winding-sheet,     And every turf beneath their feet        Shall be a soldier's sepulchre                               T        _  _       Under a spreading chestnut tree       The village smithy stands      The smith, a mighty man is he,       With large and sinewy hands      And the muscles of his brawny arms       Are strong as iron bands       His hair is crisp, and black, and long,       His face is like the tan      His brow is wet with honest sweat,       He earns whate'er he can,     And looks the whole world in the face,       For he owes not any man       Week in, week out, from morn till night,       You can hear his bellows blow      You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,       With measured beat and slow,     Like a sexton ringing the village bell,       When the evening sun is low       And children coming home from school       Look in at the open door      They love to see the flaming forge,       And hear the bellows roar,     And catch the burning sparks that fly       Like chaff from a threshing-floor       He goes on Sunday to the church,       And sits among his boys      He hears the parson pray and preach,       He hears his daughter's voice,     Singing in the village choir,       And it makes his heart rejoice       It sounds to him like her mother's voice,       Singing in Paradise!     He needs must think of her once more,       How in the grave she lies      And with his hard, rough hand he wipes       A tear out of his eyes       Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,       Onward through life he goes      Each morning sees some task begin,       Each evening sees it close      Something attempted, something done,       Has earned a night's repose       Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,       For the lesson thou hast taught!     Thus at the flaming forge of life       Our fortunes must be wrought      Thus on its sounding anvil shaped       Each burning deed and thought!                           H  W        _     A  _       Good people all, of every sort,       Give ear unto my song      And if you find it wondrous short,       It cannot hold you long       In Islington there was a Man,       Of whom the world might say,     That still a godly race he ran,       Whene'er he went to pray       A kind and gentle heart he had,       To comfort friends and foes,     The naked every day he clad,       When he put on his clothes       And in that town a Dog was found,       As many dogs there be,     Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,       And curs of low degree   [Illustration]      This Dog and Man at first were friends        But when a pique began,     The Dog, to gain some private ends,       Went mad and bit the Man       Around from all the neighbouring streets       The wond'ring neighbours ran,     And swore the Dog had lost his wits,       To bite so good a Man       The wound it seem'd both sore and sad       To every Christian eye      And while they swore the Dog was mad,       They swore the Man would die   [Illustration]      But soon a wonder came to light,       That show'd the rogues they lied:     The Man recover'd of the bite,       The Dog it was that died                                O        _ _       O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,       And Greta woods are green,     And you may gather garlands there       Would grace a summer queen      And as I rode by Dalton Hall       Beneath the turrets high,     A Maiden on the castle wall       Was singing merrily,--     'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,       And Greta woods are green      I'd rather rove with Edmund there,       Than reign our English queen '      --'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,       To leave both tower and town,     Thou first must guess what life lead we,       That dwell by dale and down?     And if thou canst that riddle read,       As read full well you may,     Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed       As blithe as Queen of May '     Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,       And Greta woods are green      I'd rather rove with Edmund there       Than reign our English queen '  [Illustration]      'I read you by your bugle horn       And by your palfrey good,     I read you for a Ranger sworn,       To keep the king's greenwood '     --'A Ranger, lady, winds his horn,       And 'tis at peep of light      His blast is heard at merry morn,       And mine at dead of night '     Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,       And Greta woods are gay      I would I were with Edmund there,       To reign his Queen of May!      'With burnish'd brand and musketoon,       So gallantly you come,     I read you for a bold Dragoon       That lists the tuck of drum '     --'I list no more the tuck of drum,       No more the trumpet hear      But when the beetle sounds his hum,       My comrades take the spear      And O! though Brignall banks be fair       And Greta woods be gay,     Yet mickle must the maiden dare,       Would reign my Queen of May!      'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,       A nameless death I'll die!     The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead       Were better mate than I!     And when I'm with my comrades met       Beneath the greenwood bough,     What once we were we all forget,       Nor think what we are now '         Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,       And Greta woods are green      And you may gather garlands there       Would grace a summer queen                               W        _   _       Of Nelson and the North,     Sing the glorious day's renown,     When to battle fierce came forth     All the might of Denmark's crown,     And her arms along the deep proudly shone      By each gun the lighted brand,     In a bold determined hand,     And the Prince of all the land     Led them on --      Like leviathans afloat,     Lay their bulwarks on the brine      While the sign of battle flew     On the lofty British line:     It was ten of April morn by the chime:     As they drifted on their path,     There was silence deep as death      And the boldest held his breath     For a time --      But the might of England flush'd     To anticipate the scene      And her van the fleeter rush'd     O'er the deadly space between      'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried, when each gun     From its adamantine lips     Spread a death-shade round the ships,     Like the hurricane eclipse     Of the sun       Again! again! again!     And the havoc did not slack,     Till a feeble cheer the Dane     To our cheering sent us back --     Their shots along the deep slowly boom --     Then ceased--and all is wail,     As they strike the shatter'd sail      Or, in conflagration pale,     Light the gloom       Out spoke the victor then     As he hail'd them o'er the wave      'Ye are brothers! ye are men!     And we conquer but to save:--     So peace instead of death let us bring      But yield, proud foe, thy fleet     With the crews, at England's feet,     And make submission meet     To our King '      Then Denmark bless'd our chief     That he gave her wounds repose      And the sounds of joy and grief     From her people wildly rose,     As death withdrew his shades from the day      While the sun look'd smiling bright     O'er a wide and woeful sight,     Where the fires of funeral light     Died away       Now joy, old England, raise!     For the tidings of thy might,     By the festal cities' blaze,     Whilst the wine-cup shines in light      And yet amidst that joy and uproar,     Let us think of them that sleep,     Full many a fathom deep,     By thy wild and stormy steep,     Elsinore!      Brave hearts! to Britain's pride     Once so faithful and so true,     On the deck of fame that died      With the gallant good Riou      Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!     While the billow mournful rolls,     And the mermaid's song condoles,     Singing Glory to the souls     Of the brave!                                     T        _ _       O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!     Through all the wide Border his steed was the best      And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none      He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone      So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,     There never was knight like the young Lochinvar       He stay'd not for brake and he stopp'd not for stone      He swam the Eske river where ford there was none      But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,     The bride had consented, the gallant came late      For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,     Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar       So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,     Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all --     Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword     (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),     'O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,     Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?      'I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied --     Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide --     And now am I come with this lost Love of mine     To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine      There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,     That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!'      The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,     He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup      She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,     With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye      He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,--     'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar       So stately his form, and so lovely her face,     That never a hall such a galliard did grace      While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,     And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume      And the bride-maidens whispered, ''Twere better by far,     To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!'      One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,     When they reach'd the hall door  and the charger stood near      So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,     So light to the saddle before her he sprung!     'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur      They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar       There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan,     Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran     There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lea,     But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see      So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,     Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?                                                  W        _    _       It was the schooner Hesperus,       That sailed the wintry sea      And the skipper had taken his little daughter,       To bear him company       Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,       Her cheeks like the dawn of day,     And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds,       That ope in the month of May       The skipper he stood beside the helm,       His pipe was in his mouth,     And he watched how the veering flaw did blow       The smoke now West, now South       Then up and spake an old sailòr,       Had sail'd the Spanish Main,     'I pray thee, put into yonder port,       For I fear a hurricane       'Last night, the moon had a golden ring,       And to-night no moon we see!'     The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,       And a scornful laugh laughed he       Colder and louder blew the wind,       A gale from the North-east      The snow fell hissing in the brine,       And the billows frothed like yeast       Down came the storm, and smote amain       The vessel in its strength      She shudder'd and paused, like a frighted steed,       Then leap'd her cable's length       'Come hither! come hither! my little daughtèr        And do not tremble so      For I can weather the roughest gale       That ever wind did blow '      He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat       Against the stinging blast      He cut a rope from a broken spar,       And bound her to the mast       'O father! I hear the church-bells ring,       O say, what may it be?'     ''Tis a fog-bell, on a rock-bound coast!'--       And he steer'd for the open sea       'O father! I hear the sound of guns,       O say, what may it be?'     'Some ship in distress that cannot live       In such an angry sea!'      'O father! I see a gleaming light,       O say, what may it be?'     But the father answered never a word,       A frozen corpse was he   [Illustration]      Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,       With his face turned to the skies,     The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow       On his fixed and glassy eyes       Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed       That savèd she might be      And she thought of Christ, who stilled the waves       On the Lake of Galilee       And fast through the midnight dark and drear,       Through the whistling sleet and snow,     Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept       Towards the reef of Norman's Woe       And ever the fitful gusts between       A sound came from the land      It was the sound of the trampling surf,       On the rocks and the hard sea-sand       The breakers were right beneath her bows,       She drifted a dreary wreck,     And a whooping billow swept the crew       Like icicles from her deck       She struck where the white and fleecy waves       Look'd soft as carded wool,     But the cruel rocks, they gored her sides       Like the horns of an angry bull       Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,       With the masts went by the board      Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,       Ho! ho! the breakers roared!      At day-break, on the bleak sea-beach       A fisherman stood aghast,     To see the form of a maiden fair       Lashed close to a drifting mast       The salt sea was frozen on her breast,       The salt tears in her eyes      And he saw her hair like the brown sea-weed       On the billows fall and rise       Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,       In the midnight and the snow!     Christ save us all from a death like this,       On the reef of Norman's Woe!                            H  W        _    -_       The noon was shady, and soft airs       Swept Ouse's silent tide,     When, 'scaped from literary cares,       I wander'd on his side       My spaniel, prettiest of his race,       And high in pedigree,--     (Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace       That spaniel found for me,)      Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,       Now, starting into sight,     Pursued the swallow o'er the meads       With scarce a slower flight       It was the time when Ouse display'd       His lilies newly blown      Their beauties I intent survey'd,       And one I wish'd my own       With cane extended far I sought       To steer it close to land      But still the prize, though nearly caught,       Escaped my eager hand       _Beau_ mark'd my unsuccessful pains       With fix'd considerate face,     And puzzling set his puppy brains       To comprehend the case       But with a cherup clear and strong       Dispersing all his dream,     I thence withdrew, and follow'd long       The windings of the stream       My ramble ended, I return'd        _Beau_, trotting far before,     The floating wreath again discern'd,       And plunging left the shore       I saw him with that lily cropp'd       Impatient swim to meet     My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd       The treasure at my feet       Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried,       Shall hear of this thy deed      My dog shall mortify the pride       Of man's superior breed       'But chief myself I will enjoin,       Awake at duty's call,     To show a love as prompt as thine       To Him who gives me all '                                    W        _ ,  _       Loving friend, the gift of one,     Who her own true faith hath run       Through thy lower nature      Be my benediction said     With my hand upon thy head,       Gentle fellow-creature!      Like a lady's ringlets brown,     Flow thy silken ears adown       Either side demurely,     Of thy silver-suited breast     Shining out from all the rest       Of thy body purely       Darkly brown thy body is,     Till the sunshine, striking this,       Alchemise its dulness,--     When the sleek curls manifold     Flash all over into gold,       With a burnished fulness       Underneath my stroking hand,     Startled eyes of hazel bland       Kindling, growing larger,--     Up thou leapest with a spring,     Full of prank and curvetting,       Leaping like a charger       Leap! thy broad tail waves a light      Leap! thy slender feet are bright,       Canopied in fringes      Leap--those tasselled ears of thine     Flicker strangely, fair and fine,       Down their golden inches       Yet, my pretty sportive friend,     Little is't to such an end       That I praise thy rareness!     Other dogs may be thy peers     Haply in these drooping ears,       And this glossy fairness       But of _thee_ it shall be said,     This dog watched beside a bed       Day and night unweary,--     Watched within a curtained room,     Where no sunbeam brake the gloom       Round the sick and dreary       Roses, gathered for a vase,     In that chamber died apace,       Beam and breeze resigning--     This dog only, waited on,     Knowing that when light is gone,       Love remains for shining       Other dogs in thymy dew     Tracked the hares and followed through       Sunny moor or meadow--     This dog only, crept and crept     Next a languid cheek that slept,       Sharing in the shadow       Other dogs of loyal cheer     Bounded at the whistle clear,       Up the woodside hieing--     This dog only, watched in reach     Of a faintly uttered speech,       Or a louder sighing       And if one or two quick tears     Dropped upon his glossy ears,       Or a sigh came double,--     Up he sprang in eager haste,     Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,       In a tender trouble       And this dog was satisfied,     If a pale thin hand would glide,       Down his dewlaps sloping,--     Which he pushed his nose within,     After,--platforming his chin       On the palm left open       This dog, if a friendly voice     Call him now to blyther choice       Than such chamber-keeping,     'Come out!' praying from the door,     Presseth backward as before,       Up against me leaping       Therefore to this dog will I,     Tenderly not scornfully,       Render praise and favour!     With my hand upon his head,     Is my benediction said       Therefore, and for ever       And because he loves me so,     Better than his kind will do       Often, man or woman,--     Give I back more love again     Than dogs often take of men,--       Leaning from my Human       Blessings on thee, dog of mine,     Pretty collars make thee fine,       Sugared milk make fat thee!     Pleasures wag on in thy tail--     Hands of gentle motions fail       Nevermore, to pat thee!      Downy pillow take thy head,     Silken coverlid bestead,       Sunshine help thy sleeping!     No fly's buzzing wake thee up--     No man break thy purple cup,       Set for drinking deep in       Whiskered cats arointed flee--     Sturdy stoppers keep from thee       Cologne distillations!     Nuts lie in thy path for stones,     And thy feast-day macaroons       Turn to daily rations!      Mock I thee, in wishing weal?--     Tears are in my eyes to feel       Thou art made so straitly,     Blessing needs must straiten too,--     Little canst thou joy or do,       Thou who lovest _greatly_       Yet be blessed to the height     Of all good and all delight       Pervious to thy nature,--     Only _loved_ beyond that line,     With a love that answers thine,       Loving fellow-creature!                                _ _   I      Merry it is in the good greenwood,       When the mavis and merle are singing,     When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,       And the hunter's horn is ringing       'O Alice Brand, my native land       Is lost for love of you      And we must hold by wood and wold,       As outlaws wont to do!      'O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,       And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,     That on the night of our luckless flight,       Thy brother bold I slew       'Now must I teach to hew the beech,       The hand that held the glaive,     For leaves to spread our lowly bed,       And stakes to fence our cave       'And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,       That wont on harp to stray,     A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer,       To keep the cold away '--      --'O Richard! if my brother died,       'Twas but a fatal chance:     For darkling was the battle tried,       And fortune sped the lance       'If pall and vair no more I wear,       Nor thou the crimson sheen,     As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray        As gay the forest-green       'And, Richard, if our lot be hard,       And lost thy native land,     Still Alice has her own Richàrd,       And he his Alice Brand '         'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,       So blithe Lady Alice is singing      On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side,       Lord Richard's axe is ringing       Up spoke the moody Elfin King,       Who wonn'd within the hill,--     Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church,       His voice was ghostly shrill       'Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,       Our moonlight circle's screen?     Or who comes here to chase the deer,       Beloved of our Elfin Queen?     Or who may dare on wold to wear       The fairies' fatal green?      'Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,       For thou wert christen'd man:     For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,       For mutter'd word or ban       'Lay on him the curse of the wither'd heart,       The curse of the sleepless eye      Till he wish and pray that his life would part,       Nor yet find leave to die!'         'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood,       Though the birds have still'd their singing      The evening blaze doth Alice raise,       And Richard is fagots bringing       Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,       Before Lord Richard stands,     And as he cross'd and bless'd himself,     'I fear not sign,' quoth the grisly elf,       'That is made with bloody hands '  [Illustration]      But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,       That woman void of fear,--     'And if there's blood upon his hand,       'Tis but the blood of deer '      --'Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!       It cleaves unto his hand,     The stain of thine own kindly blood,       The blood of Ethert Brand '      Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand,       And made the holy sign,--     'And if there's blood on Richard's hand,       A spotless hand is mine       'And I conjure thee, Demon elf,       By Him whom Demons fear,     To show us whence thou art thyself,       And what thine errand here?'         --''Tis merry, 'tis merry, in Fairy-land,       When fairy birds are singing,     When the court doth ride by their monarch's side,       With bit and bridle ringing:      'And gaily shines the Fairy-land--       But all is glistening show,     Like the idle gleam that December's beam       Can dart on ice and snow       'And fading, like that varied gleam,       Is our inconstant shape,     Who now like knight and lady seem,       And now like dwarf and ape       'It was between the night and day,       When the Fairy King has power,     That I sunk down in a sinful fray,     And 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd away       To the joyless Elfin bower       'But wist I of a woman bold,       Who thrice my brow durst sign,     I might regain my mortal mould,       As fair a form as thine '  [Illustration: '  'S    , '      ']      She cross'd him once--she cross'd him twice--       That lady was so brave      The fouler grew his goblin hue,       The darker grew the cave       She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold!       --He rose beneath her hand     The fairest knight on Scottish mould,       Her brother, Ethert Brand!      --Merry it is in good greenwood,       When the mavis and merle are singing      But merrier were they in Dumfermline gray       When all the bells were ringing                                 W        _O,      _       O, wert thou in the cauld blast,       On yonder lea, on yonder lea,     My plaidie to the angry airt,       I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee      Or did misfortune's bitter storms       Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,     Thy bield should be my bosom,       To share it a', to share it a'       Or were I in the wildest waste       Of earth and air, of earth and air,     The desart were a paradise,       If thou wert there, if thou wert there      Or were I monarch o' the globe,       Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,     The only jewel in my crown       Wad be my queen, wad be my queen                                   R        _I   _       Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,       I dearly like the west,     For there the bonie lassie lives,       The lassie I lo'e best:     There wild woods grow, and rivers row       And monie a hill between      But day and night my fancy's flight       Is ever wi' my Jean   [Illustration]      I see her in the dewy flowers,       I see her sweet and fair      I hear her in the tunefu' birds,       I hear her charm the air:     There's not a bonie flower that springs       By fountain, shaw, or green      There's not a bonie bird that sings,       But minds me o' my Jean                                  R        _'       _   A       By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,     I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey:     And as he was singing, the tears fast down came--     There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame   [Illustration]      The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,     Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars      We dare na weel say't but we ken wha's to blame--     There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame       My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,     And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd      It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame--     There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame       Now life is a burden that bows me down,     Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown      But till my last moment my words are the same--     There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame                                         R        _  O' _       Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon,       How can ye blume sae fair!     How can ye chant, ye little birds,       And I sae fu' o' care       Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,       That sings upon the bough      Thou minds me o' the happy days,       When my fause luve was true       Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,       That sings beside thy mate      For sae I sat, and sae I sang,       And wist na o' my fate       Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon,       To see the woodbine twine,     And ilka bird sang o' its love,       And sae did I o' mine       Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose       Frae off its thorny tree      And my fause luver staw the rose,       But left the thorn wi' me                             R        _   _       As slow our ship her foamy track       Against the wind was cleaving,     Her trembling pennant still looked back       To that dear isle 'twas leaving      So loth we part from all we love,       From all the links that bind us      So turn our hearts, where'er we rove,       To those we've left behind us!  [Illustration]      When, round the bowl, of vanished years       We talk, with joyous seeming,--     With smiles, that might as well be tears       So faint, so sad their beaming      While memory brings us back again       Each early tie that twined us,     Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then       To those we've left behind us!      And when, in other climes, we meet       Some isle or vale enchanting,     Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,       And nought but love is wanting      We think how great had been our bliss,       If Heaven had but assigned us     To live and die in scenes like this,       With some we've left behind us!      As travellers oft look back, at eve,       When eastward darkly going,     To gaze upon that light they leave       Still faint behind them glowing,--     So, when the close of pleasure's day       To gloom hath near consigned us,     We turn to catch one fading ray       Of joy that's left behind us                               T        _A ,  _       O, my luve's like a red, red rose,       That's newly sprung in June:     O, my luve's like the melodie       That's sweetly play'd in tune       As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,       So deep in luve am I:     And I will luve thee still, my dear,       Till a' the seas gang dry       Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,       And the rocks melt wi' the sun:     I will luve thee still, my dear,       While the sands o' life shall run       And fare thee weel, my only luve,       And fare thee weel awhile!     And I will come again, my luve,       Tho' it were ten thousand mile      __   'S           Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,     Scots, wham Bruce has aften led      Welcome to your gory bed,       Or to glorious victorie       Now's the day, and now's the hour      See the front o' battle lower      See approach proud Edward's power--       Edward! chains and slaverie!      Wha will be a traitor knave?     Wha can fill a coward's grave?     Wha sae base as be a slave?       Traitor! coward! turn and flee!      Wha for Scotland's King and law     Freedom's sword will strongly draw,     Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?       Caledonian! on wi' me!      By oppression's woes and pains!     By your sons in servile chains!     We will drain our dearest veins,       But they shall--they _shall_ be free!      Lay the proud usurpers low!     Tyrants fall in every foe!     Liberty's in every blow!       Forward! let us do, or die!                           R        _ -_       The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,       In the ranks of death you'll find him      His father's sword he has girded on,       And his wild harp slung behind him --     'Land of song!' said the warrior-bard,       'Though all the world betrays thee,     _One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,       _One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!'      The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain       Could not bring his proud soul under      The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,       For he tore its chords asunder      And said, 'No chains shall sully thee,       Thou soul of love and bravery!     Thy songs were made for the brave and free,       They shall never sound in slavery!'                                           T        _ _       It was a' for our rightfu' King,       We left fair Scotland's strand      It was a' for our rightfu' King       We e'er saw Irish land,                       My dear        We e'er saw Irish land       Now a' is done that men can do,       And a' is done in vain      My love and native land farewell,       For I maun cross the main,                       My dear        For I maun cross the main   [Illustration]      He turn'd him right and round about       Upon the Irish shore      And gae his bridle-reins a shake,       With adieu for evermore,                       My dear        With adieu for evermore       The sodger from the wars returns,       The sailor frae the main      But I hae parted frae my love,       Never to meet again,                       My dear        Never to meet again       When day is gane, and night is come,       And a' folk bound to sleep      I think on him that's far awa',       The lee-lang night, and weep,                       My dear        The lee-lang night, and weep                               R        _     'S _       The harp that once through Tara's halls       The soul of music shed,     Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls       As if that soul were fled      So sleeps the pride of former days,       So glory's thrill is o'er,     And hearts, that once beat high for praise,       Now feel that pulse no more       No more to chiefs and ladies bright       The harp of Tara swells:     The chord alone, that breaks at night,       Its tale of ruin tells      Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,       The only throb she gives     Is when some heart indignant breaks,       To show that still she lives                                  T        __       Could Love for ever     Run like a river,     And Time's endeavour       Be tried in vain--     No other pleasure     With this could measure      And like a treasure       We'd hug the chain      But since our sighing     Ends not in dying,     And, form'd for flying,       Love plumes his wing        Then for this reason       Let's love a season      But let that season be only Spring         When lovers parted       Feel broken-hearted,       And, all hopes thwarted         Expect to die        A few years older,       Ah! how much colder       They might behold her         For whom they sigh!                                _A  _       Full fathom five thy father lies:         Of his bones are coral made      Those are pearls that were his eyes:         Nothing of him that doth fade,     But doth suffer a sea-change     Into something rich and strange      Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell      Hark! now I hear them--         Ding, Dong, Bell                         W        _ _       Ah! what avails the sceptred race,       Ah! what the form divine!     What every virtue, every grace!       Rose Aylmer, all were thine   [Illustration]      Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes       May weep, but never see,     A night of memories and of sighs       I consecrate to thee                           W  S        __       Who is Silvia? what is she,       That all our swains commend her?     Holy, fair and wise is she        The heaven such grace did lend her     That she might admired be       Is she kind, as she is fair?       For beauty lives with kindness      Love doth to her eyes repair,       To help him of his blindness      And, being help'd, inhabits there       Then to Silvia let us sing,       That Silvia is excelling      She excels each mortal thing       Upon the dull earth dwelling      To her let us garlands bring                     W        _ 'S _       Look not thou on beauty's charming,--     Sit thou still when kings are arming,--     Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,--     Speak not when the people listens,--     Stop thine ear against the singer,--     From the red gold keep thy finger,--     Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,     Easy live and quiet die                              W        __       The sun upon the lake is low,       The wild birds hush their song      The hills have evening's deepest glow,       Yet Leonard tarries long       Now all whom varied toil and care       From home and love divide,     In the calm sunset may repair       Each to the loved one's side   [Illustration]      The noble dame on turret high,       Who waits her gallant knight,     Looks to the western beam to spy       The flash of armour bright      The village maid, with hand on brow       The level ray to shade,     Upon the footpath watches now       For Colin's darkening plaid       Now to their mates the wild swans row,       By day they swam apart      And to the thicket wanders slow       The hind beside the hart      The woodlark at his partner's side       Twitters his closing song--     All meet whom day and care divide,--       But Leonard tarries long!                           W     [Illustration:     ]     __       Orpheus with his lute made trees,     And the mountain tops that freeze,       Bow themselves when he did sing:     To his music, plants and flowers     Ever sprung  as sun and showers       There had made a lasting spring       Everything that heard him play,     Even the billows of the sea,       Hung their heads, and then lay by      In sweet music is such art,     Killing care and grief of heart       Fall asleep, or, hearing, die                        W        _  _       As I was walking all alane,     I heard twa corbies making a mane      The tane unto the t'other say,     'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'      'In behint yon auld fail[2] dyke,     I wot there lies a new-slain knight      And naebody kens that he lies there     But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair   [Illustration]      'His hound is to the hunting gane,     His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,     His lady's ta'en another mate,     So we may make our dinner sweet       'Ye'll sit on his white hause bane,     And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en:     Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair,     We'll theek our nest when it grows bare       'Mony a one for him makes mane,     But nane sall ken whae he is gane:     O'er his white banes, when they are bare,     The wind sall blaw for evermair '  [2] _Fail_, 'turf '     _   _   I      Thou wast all to me, love,       For which my soul did pine--     A green isle in the sea, love,       A fountain and a shrine,     All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,       And all the flowers were mine          Ah, dream, too bright to last!       Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise     But to be overcast!       A voice from out the Future cries,     'On! on!'--but o'er the Past       (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies     Mute, motionless, aghast!         For, alas! alas! with me       The light of Life is o'er!       'No more--no more--no more'--     (Such language holds the solemn sea       To the sands upon the shore)     Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,       Or the stricken eagle soar!         And all my days are trances,       And all my nightly dreams     Are where thy dark eye glances,       And where thy footstep gleams      In what ethereal dances,       By what eternal streams                          E  A        _  _       Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair          Now the sun is laid to sleep,     Seated in thy silver chair,         State in wonted manner keep:             Hesperus entreats thy light,             Goddess excellently bright   [Illustration]      Earth, let not thy envious shade         Dare itself to interpose      Cynthia's shining orb was made         Heav'n to clear, when day did close:             Bless us then with wished sight,             Goddess excellently bright       Lay thy bow of pearl apart         And thy crystal shining quiver      Give unto the flying hart         Space to breathe, how short soever:             Thou that mak'st a day of night,             Goddess excellently bright       B        _ _       Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,       The sun has left the lea,     The orange flower perfumes the bower,       The breeze is on the sea      The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,       Sits hush'd his partner nigh      Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour       But where is County Guy?      The village maid steals through the shade,       Her shepherd's suit to hear      To beauty shy, by lattice high,       Sings high-born Cavalier      The star of Love, all stars above,       Now reigns o'er earth and sky      And high and low the influence know--       But where is County Guy?                               W        _    _       Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,       Pibroch of Donuil,     Wake thy wild voice anew,       Summon Clan Conuil      Come away, come away,       Hark to the summons!     Come in your war-array,       Gentles and commons       Come from deep glen, and       From mountain so rocky,     The war-pipe and pennon       Are at Inverlochy      Come every hill-plaid, and       True heart that wears one,     Come every steel blade, and       Strong hand that bears one       Leave untended the herd,       The flock without shelter      Leave the corpse uninterr'd,       The bride at the altar      Leave the deer, leave the steer,       Leave nets and barges:     Come with your fighting gear,       Broadswords and targes       Come as the winds come, when       Forests are rended      Come as the waves come, when       Navies are stranded:     Faster come, faster come,       Faster and faster,     Chief, vassal, page and groom,       Tenant and master       Fast they come, fast they come        See how they gather!     Wide waves the eagle plume       Blended with heather      Cast your plaids, draw your blades,       Forward each man set!     Pibroch of Donuil Dhu       Knell for the onset!                          W        _   _       The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,     And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold      And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,     When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee       Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,     That host with their banners at sunset were seen      Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,     That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown   [Illustration:           ]      For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,     And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd      And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,     And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!      And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,     But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride      And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,     And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf       And there lay the rider distorted and pale,     With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:     And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,     The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown       And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,     And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal      And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,     Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!                                                 _ _       While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,     My true love has mounted his steed, and away     Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,--     Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!      He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,     He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair,     From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,--     Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the Crown!      For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws      Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause      His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,--     God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown!      They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all     The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall      But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,     That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown       There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes      There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!     Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown     With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown?      Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!     Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,     Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,     In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown                                              W        _    'S _       Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,     And many goodly states and kingdoms seen      Round many western islands have I been     Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold       Oft of one wide expanse had I been told     That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne:     Yet did I never breathe its pure serene     Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:      Then felt I like some watcher of the skies     When a new planet swims into his ken      Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes      He stared at the Pacific--and all his men     Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--     Silent, upon a peak in Darien                                   J     [Illustration]     __          A lake and a fairy boat     To sail in the moonlight clear,--     And merrily we would float     From the dragons that watch us here!      Thy gown should be snow-white silk,       And strings of orient pearls,     Like gossamers dipped in milk,       Should twine with thy raven curls      Red rubies should deck thy hands,       And diamonds should be thy dower--     But Fairies have broke their wands,       And wishing has lost its power!                              T        _   _       How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,     By all their country's wishes bless'd!     When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,     Returns to deck their hallow'd mould,     She there shall dress a sweeter sod     Than Fancy's feet have ever trod   [Illustration]      By fairy hands their knell is rung      By forms unseen their dirge is sung      There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,     To bless the turf that wraps their clay      And Freedom shall a while repair     To dwell a weeping hermit there!                              W        _ _       Fair Daffodils, we weep to see         You haste away so soon:     As yet the early-rising Sun         Has not attain'd his noon                  Stay, stay,         Until the hasting day                 Has run         But to the even-song      And, having pray'd together, we         Will go with you along   [Illustration]      We have short time to stay, as you,         We have as short a Spring      As quick a growth to meet decay,         As you, or any thing                We die,         As your hours do, and dry               Away,         Like to the Summer's rain      Or as the pearls of morning's dew         Ne'er to be found again                        R        _  _       Behold her, single in the field,     Yon solitary Highland Lass!     Reaping and singing by herself      Stop here, or gently pass!     Alone she cuts and binds the grain,     And sings a melancholy strain      O listen! for the Vale profound     Is overflowing with the sound       No Nightingale did ever chaunt     More welcome notes to weary bands     Of travellers in some shady haunt,     Among Arabian sands:     A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard     In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,     Breaking the silence of the seas     Among the farthest Hebrides       Will no one tell me what she sings?--     Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow     For old, unhappy, far-off things,     And battles long ago:     Or is it some more humble lay,     Familiar matter of to-day?     Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,     That has been, and may be again?  [Illustration]      Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang     As if her song could have no ending      I saw her singing at her work,     And o'er the sickle bending --     I listened, motionless and still      And, as I mounted up the hill     The music in my heart I bore,     Long after it was heard no more                      W        _ _       Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,         Why do ye fall so fast?         Your date is not so past      But you may stay yet here a while,         To blush and gently smile              And go at last       What, were ye born to be         An hour or half's delight          And so to bid good-night?     'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth         Merely to show your worth,             And lose you quite       But you are lovely leaves, where we         May read how soon things have         Their end, though ne'er so brave:     And after they have shown their pride,         Like you, a while: they glide             Into the grave                             R        _ _       Proud Maisie is in the wood,       Walking so early      Sweet Robin sits on the bush,       Singing so rarely       'Tell me, thou bonny bird,       When shall I marry me?'--     'When six braw gentlemen       Kirkward shall carry ye '  [Illustration]      'Who makes the bridal bed,       Birdie, say truly?'--     'The grey-headed sexton       That delves the grave duly       'The glow-worm o'er grave and stone       Shall light thee steady      The owl from the steeple sing,       "Welcome, proud lady "'                        W        __       Come, Sleep! O Sleep, the certain knot of peace,       The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe,     The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,       Th' indifferent judge between the high and low      With shield of proof shield me from out the press       Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw:     O make in me those civil wars to cease        I will good tribute pay, if thou do so      Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed,       A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light,     A rosy garland and a weary head:       And if these things, as being thine in right,     Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me,     Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see                                        _   _       That day of wrath, that dreadful day,     When heaven and earth shall pass away!     What power shall be the sinner's stay?     How shall he meet that dreadful day?      When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,     The flaming heavens together roll      When louder yet, and yet more dread,     Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!      Oh! on that day, that wrathful day,     When man to judgment wakes from clay,     Be  the trembling sinner's stay,     Though heaven and earth shall pass away!                                 W        _  _       The poplars are fell'd  farewell to the shade,     And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade!     The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,     Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives       Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view     Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew      And now in the grass behold they are laid,     And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade!      The blackbird has fled to another retreat,     Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,     And the scene where his melody charm'd me before     Resounds with his sweet flowing ditty no more       My fugitive years are all hasting away,     And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,     With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,     Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead       'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,     To muse on the perishing pleasures of man      Short-lived as we are, our pleasures, I see     Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we                                           W        __       When icicles hang by the wall,       And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,     And Tom bears logs into the hall,       And milk comes frozen home in pail,     When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,     Then nightly sings the staring owl,                 Tuwhoo!     Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note!     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot       When all around the wind doth blow,       And coughing drowns the parson's saw,     And birds sit brooding in the snow,       And Marian's nose looks red and raw,     When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,     Then nightly sings the staring owl                 Tuwhoo!     Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note!     While greasy Joan doth keel the pot                        W        _ _       It was many and many a year ago,         In a kingdom by the sea,     That a maiden there lived whom you may know         By the name of Annabel Lee      And this maiden she lived with no other thought         Than to love and be loved by me       _I_ was a child, and _she_ was a child,         In this kingdom by the sea      But we loved with a love that was more than love,         I and my Annabel Lee      With a love that the wingèd seraphs of heaven         Coveted her and me       And this was the reason that, long ago,         In this kingdom by the sea,     A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling         My beautiful Annabel Lee      So that her high-born kinsmen came         And bore her away from me,     To shut her up in a sepulchre         In this kingdom by the sea   [Illustration:      A        ]      The angels, not half so happy in heaven,         Went envying her and me      Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,         In this kingdom by the sea)     That the wind came out of the cloud by night,         Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee   [Illustration]      But our love it was stronger by far than the love         Of those who were older than we--         Of many far wiser than we      And neither the angels in heaven above,         Nor the demons down under the sea,     Can ever dissever my soul from the soul         Of the beautiful Annabel Lee       For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams         Of the beautiful Annabel Lee      And the stars never rise, but I see the bright eyes         Of the beautiful Annabel Lee      And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side     Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,         In her sepulchre there by the sea,         In her tomb by the sounding sea                                            E  A        _ _       If I had thought thou couldst have died,         I might not weep for thee      But I forgot, when by thy side,         That thou couldst mortal be:     It never through my mind had past         The time would e'er be o'er,     And I on thee should look my last,         And thou shouldst smile no more!      And still upon that face I look,         And think 'twill smile again      And still the thought I will not brook         That I must look in vain!     But when I speak--thou dost not say,         What thou ne'er left'st unsaid      And now I feel, as well I may,         Sweet Mary! thou art dead       If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,         All cold and all serene--     I still might press thy silent heart,         And where thy smiles have been!     While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,         Thou seemest still mine own      But there I lay thee in thy grave--         And I am now alone!      I do not think, where'er thou art,         Thou hast forgotten me      And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,         In thinking too of thee:     Yet there was round thee such a dawn         Of light ne'er seen before,     As fancy never could have drawn,         And never can restore!                             C        _ ,  _       Twist ye, twine ye! even so,     Mingle shades of joy and woe,     Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,     In the thread of human life       While the mystic twist is spinning,     Aid the infant's life beginning,     Dimly seen through twilight bending,     Lo, what varied shapes attending!      Passions wild, and follies vain,     Pleasures soon exchanged for pain      Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,     In the magic dance appear       Now they wax, and now they dwindle,     Whirling with the whirling spindle      Twist ye, twine ye! even so,     Mingle human bliss and woe                          W        _ ,     _       Tell me not (sweet) I am unkind,       That from the nunnery     Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,       To war and arms I fly       True: a new mistress now I chase,       The first foe in the field      And with a stronger faith embrace       A sword, a horse, a shield       Yet this inconstancy is such,       As you too shall adore      I could not love thee, Dear, so much,       Lov'd I not Honour more                              _  _       'O where have you been, my long, long love,       This long seven years and mair?'     'O I'm come to seek my former vows       Ye granted me before '      'O hold your tongue of your former vows,       For they will breed sad strife      O hold your tongue of your former vows,       For I am become a wife '      He turned him right and round about,       And the tear blinded his e'e:     'I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground       If it had not been for thee       'I might hae had a king's daughter,       Far, far beyond the sea      I might have had a king's daughter,       Had it not been for love o' thee '      'If ye might have had a king's daughter,       Yer sel ye had to blame      Ye might have taken the king's daughter,       For ye kend that I was nane '      'O faulse are the vows o' womankind,       But fair is their faulse bodie      I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground,       Had it not been for love o' thee '      'If I was to leave my husband dear,       And my two babes also,     O what have you to take me to,       If with you I should go?'      'I hae seven ships upon the sea,       The eighth brought me to land      With four-and-twenty bold mariners,       And music on every hand '      She has taken up her two little babes,       Kissed them baith cheek and chin      'O fare ye weel, my ain twa babes,       For I'll never see you again '      She set her foot upon the ship,       No mariners could she behold      But the sails were o' the taffetie       And the masts o' the beaten gold       She had not sailed a league, a league,       A league but barely three,     When dismal grew his countenance,       And drumlie grew his e'e       The masts, that were like the beaten gold,       Bent not on the heaving seas      But the sails, that were o' the taffetie,       Fill'd not in the east land breeze   [Illustration]      They had not sailed a league, a league,       A league but barely three,     Until she espied his cloven foot,       And she wept right bitterlie       'O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he,       'Of your weeping now let me be      I will show you how the lilies grow       On the banks of Italy '      'O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,       That the sun shines sweetly on?'     'O yon are the hills of heaven,' he said,       'Where you will never win '      'O whaten a mountain is yon,' she said,       'All so dreary wi' frost and snow?'     'O yon is the mountain of hell,' he cried,       'Where you and I will go '      And aye when she turn'd her round about,       Aye taller he seemed to be      Until that the tops o' the gallant ship       Nae taller were than he       The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud,       And the leven filled her e'e      And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites       Upon the gurlie sea       He strack the tapmast wi' his hand,       The foremast wi' his knee      And he brake that gallant ship in twain,       And sank her in the sea                    _   _       The Love that I have chosen       I'll therewith be content      The salt sea shall be frozen       Before that I repent      Repent it shall I never       Until the day I dee!     But the Lawlands of Holland       Have twinn'd my Love and me       My Love he built a bonny ship,       And set her to the main      With twenty-four brave mariners       To sail her out and hame      But the weary wind began to rise,       The sea began to rout,     And my Love and his bonny ship       Turn'd withershins about       There shall no mantle cross my back,       No comb go in my hair,     Neither shall coal nor candle-light       Shine in my bower mair      Nor shall I choose another Love       Until the day I dee,     Since the Lawlands of Holland       Have twinn'd my Love and me       'Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear,       Be still, and bide content!     There's other lads in Galloway        Ye needna sair lament '     --O there is none in Galloway,       There's none at all for me:--     I never loved a lad but one,       And he's drown'd in the sea                               _   _       _Once_ it smiled a silent dell     Where the people did not dwell:     They had gone unto the wars,     Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,     Nightly from their azure towers     To keep watch above the flowers,     In the midst of which all day     The red sunlight lazily lay      _Now_ each visitor shall confess     The sad valley's restlessness      Nothing there is motionless--     Nothing save the airs that brood     Over the magic solitude      Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees     That palpitate like the chill seas     Around the misty Hebrides!     Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven     That rustle through the unquiet heaven     Unceasingly, from morn till even      Over the violets there that lie     In myriad types of the human eye--     Over the lilies there that wave     And weep above a nameless grave!     They wave--from out their fragrant tops     Eternal dews come down in drops      They weep--from off their delicate stems     Perennial tears descend in gems                                 E  A        _       _       Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,       As his corse to the rampart we hurried      Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot       O'er the grave where our hero we buried       We buried him darkly at dead of night,       The sods with our bayonets turning      By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,       And the lantern dimly burning       No useless coffin enclosed his breast,       Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him      But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,       With his martial cloak around him       Few and short were the prayers we said,       And we spoke not a word of sorrow      But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,       And we bitterly thought of the morrow       We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,       And smoothed down his lonely pillow,     That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,       And we far away on the billow!      Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,       And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,--     But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on       In the grave where a Briton has laid him       But half of our heavy task was done       When the clock struck the hour for retiring      And we heard the distant and random gun       That the foe was sullenly firing       Slowly and sadly we laid him down,       From the field of his fame fresh and gory      We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone--       But we left him alone with his glory!                                         C        _  'S _       On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,     Ever beware that your couch be bless'd      Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,     Sing the Ave, and say the Creed       For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,     And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,     Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,     Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud       The Lady she sate in St  Swithin's Chair,     The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:     Her cheek was pale--but resolved and high     Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye       She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,     When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,     When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,     And bade her descend, and her promise plight       He that dare sit on St  Swithin's Chair,     When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,     Questions three, when he speaks the spell,     He may ask, and she must tell       The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,     These three long years in battle and siege      News are there none of his weal or his woe     And fain the Lady his fate would know       She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks --     Is it the moody owl that shrieks?     Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,     The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?  [Illustration]      The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,     And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow      The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,     When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form!                                   W        _        _       Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story      The days of our youth are the days of our glory      And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty     Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty       What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?     'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled      Then away with all such from the head that is hoary!     What care I for the wreaths that can _only_ give glory!      Oh !--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,     'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,     Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,     She thought that I was not unworthy to love her       _There_ chiefly I sought thee, _there_ only I found thee      Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee      When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story,     I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory                                                                _'S _       They shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig,       Beside the Headless Cross,     And they left him lying in his blood,       Upon the moor and moss          *       *       *       *       *      They made a bier of the broken bough,       The sauch and the aspin gray,     And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,       And waked him there all day       A lady came to that lonely bower       And threw her robes aside,     She tore her ling (long) yellow hair,       And knelt at Barthram's side   [Illustration]      She bath'd him in the Lady-Well       His wounds so deep and sair,     And she plaited a garland for his breast,       And a garland for his hair       They rowed him in a lily-sheet,       And bare him to his earth,     (And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass,       As they passed the Chapel Garth)       They buried him at (the mirk) midnight,       (When the dew fell cold and still,     When the aspin gray forgot to play,       And the mist clung to the hill)       They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,       By the edge of the Nine-Stone Burn,     And they covered him (o'er with the heather-flower)       The moss and the (Lady) fern       A Grey Friar staid upon the grave,       And sang till the morning tide,     And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul,       While Headless Cross shall bide                                        R        _  _       O blithe New-comer! I have heard,       I hear thee and rejoice      O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird,       Or but a wandering Voice?      While I am lying on the grass       Thy twofold shout I hear,     From hill to hill it seems to pass,       At once far off, and near       Though babbling only to the Vale,       Of sunshine and of flowers,     Thou bringest unto me a tale       Of visionary hours   [Illustration]      Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring!       Even yet thou art to me     No bird, but an invisible thing,       A voice, a mystery       The same whom in my schoolboy days       I listened to  that Cry     Which made me look a thousand ways       In bush, and tree, and sky       To seek thee did I often rove       Through woods and on the green      And thou wert still a hope, a love        Still longed for, never seen       And I can listen to thee yet        Can lie upon the plain     And listen, till I do beget       That golden time again       O blessèd Bird! the earth we pace       Again appears to be     An unsubstantial, faery place:       That is fit home for Thee!                        W        _  _       I wish I were where Helen lies!     Night and day on me she cries      O that I were where Helen lies,       On fair Kirkconnel Lee!      Curst be the heart that thought the thought     And curst the hand, that fired the shot,     When in my arms burd Helen dropt,       And died to succour me!      O think na ye my heart was sair,     When my love dropt down and spak' nae mair!     There did she swoon wi' meikle care,       On fair Kirkconnel Lee       As I went down the water side,     None but my foe to be my guide,     None but my foe to be my guide,       On fair Kirkconnel Lee       I lighted down, my sword did draw,     I hacked him into pieces sma',     I hacked him into pieces sma',       For her sake that died for me   [Illustration]      O Helen fair, beyond compare!     I'll make a garland of thy hair,     Shall bind my heart for evermair,       Untill the day I die       O that I were where Helen lies!     Night and day on me she cries      Out of my bed she bids me rise,       Says, 'Haste, and come to me!'      O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!     If I were with thee, I were blest,     Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest,       On fair Kirkconnel Lee       I wish my grave were growing green,     A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,     And I in Helen's arms lying,       On fair Kirkconnel Lee       I wish I were where Helen lies!     Night and day on me she cries,     And I am weary of the skies,       For her sake that died for me                                 _   _       When Love with unconfinèd wings       Hovers within my gates      And my divine Althea brings       To whisper at the grates:     When I lie tangled in her hair,       And fetter'd to her eye      The Gods that wanton in the air,       Know no such liberty       When flowing cups run swiftly round       With no allaying Thames,     Our careless heads with roses bound,       Our hearts with loyal flames      When thirsty grief in wine we steep,       When healths and draughts go free,     Fishes that tipple in the deep,       Know no such liberty       When, like committed linnets, I       With shriller throat shall sing     The sweetness, mercy, majesty,       And glories of my       When I shall voice aloud, how good       He is, how great should be      Enlargèd winds that curl the flood,       Know no such liberty   [Illustration]      Stone walls do not a prison make,       Nor iron bars a cage      Minds innocent and quiet take       That for an hermitage      If I have freedom in my love,       And in my soul am free      Angels alone that soar above,       Enjoy such liberty                       _'I   '_       I wandered lonely as a cloud     That floats on high o'er vales and hills,     When all at once I saw a crowd,     A host, of golden daffodils      Beside the lake, beneath the trees,     Fluttering and dancing in the breeze   [Illustration]      Continuous as the stars that shine     And twinkle on the milky way,     They stretched in never-ending line     Along the margin of a bay:     Ten thousand saw I at a glance,     Tossing their heads in sprightly dance       The waves beside them danced  but they     Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:     A poet could not but be gay,     In such a jocund company:     I gazed--and gazed--but little thought     What wealth the show to me had brought:      For oft, when on my couch I lie     In vacant or in pensive mood,     They flash upon that inward eye     Which is the bliss of solitude      And then my heart with pleasure fills,     And dances with the daffodils                          W        __       When maidens such as Hester die,     Their place ye may not well supply,     Though ye among a thousand try,           With vain endeavour       A month or more hath she been dead,     Yet cannot I by force be led     To think upon the wormy bed           And her together       A springy motion in her gait,     A rising step, did indicate     Of pride and joy no common rate,           That flushed her spirit       I know not by what name beside     I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,     It was a joy to that allied,           She did inherit       Her parents held the Quaker rule,     Which doth the human feeling cool,     But she was train'd in Nature's school,           Nature had blest her       A waking eye, a prying mind,     A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,     A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,           Ye could not Hester       My sprightly neighbour! gone before     To that unknown and silent shore,     Shall we not meet, as heretofore,           Some Summer morning,      When from thy cheerful eyes a ray     Hath struck a bliss upon the day,     A bliss that would not go away,           A sweet fore-warning?                           C        _ _       If aught of oaten stop, or pastoral song,     May hope, chaste Eve, to soothe thy modest ear,         Like thy own brawling springs,         Thy springs, and dying gales       O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-hair'd sun     Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,         With brede ethereal wove,         O'erhang his wavy bed:      Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-eyed bat     With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,         Or where the beetle winds         His small but sullen horn,      As oft he rises midst the twilight path,     Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:--         Now teach me, maid composed         To breathe some soften'd strain,      Whose numbers, stealing through thy darkening vale,     May not unseemly with its stillness suit          As, musing slow, I hail         Thy genial loved return!  [Illustration]      For when thy folding-star arising shows     His paly circlet, at his warning lamp         The fragrant Hours, and Elves         Who slept in buds the day,      And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge     And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,         The pensive Pleasures sweet,         Prepare thy shadowy car       Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene      Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,         Whose walls more awful nod         By thy religious gleams       Or, if chill blustering winds, or driving rain     Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut,         That from the mountain's side,         Views wilds, and swelling floods,      And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires      And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all         Thy dewy fingers draw         The gradual dusky veil       While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,     And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!         While Summer loves to sport         Beneath thy lingering light       While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves      Or Winter, yelling through the troublous air,         Affrights thy shrinking train,         And rudely rends thy robes       So long, regardful of thy quiet rule,     Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, smiling Peace,         Thy gentlest influence own,         And love thy favourite name!                                      W        _     _       The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,       In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet      The westland wind is hush and still,       The lake lies sleeping at my feet      Yet not the landscape to mine eye       Bears those bright hues that once it bore      Though evening, with her richest dye,       Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore       With listless look along the plain,       I see Tweed's silver current glide,     And coldly mark the holy fane       Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride      The quiet lake, the balmy air,       The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,--     Are they still such as once they were?       Or is the dreary change in me?      Alas, the warp'd and broken board,       How can it bear the painter's dye!     The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,       How to the minstrel's skill reply!     To aching eyes each landscape lowers,       To feverish pulse each gale blows chill      And Araby's or Eden's bowers       Were barren as this moorland hill                                W        _   'S _       There lived a wife at Usher's Well,       And a wealthy wife was she      She had three stout and stalwart sons,       And sent them o'er the sea       They hadna been a week from her,       A week but barely ane,     When word came to the carline wife,       That her three sons were gane       They had not been a week from her,       A week but barely three,     When word came to the carline wife       That her sons she'd never see       'I wish the wind may never cease,       Nor fishes in the flood,     Till my three sons come hame to me,       In earthly flesh and blood!'      It fell about the Martinmas,       When nights are lang and mirk,     The carline wife's three sons came hame       And their hats were o' the birk       It neither grew in syke nor ditch,       Nor yet in ony sheugh      But at the gates o' Paradise       That birk grew fair eneugh       'Blow up the fire, my maidens!       Bring water from the well!     For a' my house shall feast this night,       Since my three sons are well!'      And she has made to them a bed,       She's made it large and wide      And she's ta'en her mantle her about        Sat down at the bed-side       Up then crew the red red cock,       And up and crew the gray      The eldest to the youngest said,       ''Tis time we were away!'      The cock he hadna craw'd but once,       And clapp'd his wings at a',     Whan the youngest to the eldest said,       'Brother, we must awa'       'The cock doth craw, the day doth daw,       The channerin' worm doth chide:     If we be miss'd out o' our place,       A sair pain we maun bide       'Fare ye well, my mother dear!       Farewell to barn and byre!     And fare ye weel, the bonny lass,       That kindles my mother's fire!'                                 _-A-_       Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,     Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,     Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,     Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning      Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!     And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale       The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,     And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,     The mere for his net, and the land for his game,     The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame      Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,     Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!      Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,     Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright:     Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,     Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word      And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,     Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale       Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come      The mother, she ask'd of his household and home:     'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,     My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still      'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,     And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale   [Illustration]      The father was steel, and the mother was stone      They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone      But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry:     He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye      And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,     And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale!                                      W        _  _       I have read, in some old marvellous tale,      Some legend strange and vague,     That a midnight host of spectres pale       Beleaguered the walls of Prague       Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,       With the wan moon overhead,     There stood, as in an awful dream,       The army of the dead       White as a sea-fog, landward bound,       The spectral camp was seen,     And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,       The river flowed between       No other voice nor sound was there,       No drum, nor sentry's pace      The mist-like banners clasped the air,       As clouds with clouds embrace       But, when the old cathedral bell       Proclaimed the morning prayer,     The white pavilions rose and fell       On the alarmèd air       Down the broad valley, fast and far       The troubled army fled      Up rose the glorious morning star,       The ghastly host was dead       I have read, in the marvellous heart of man,       That strange and mystic scroll,     That an army of phantoms vast and wan       Beleaguer the human soul       Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,       In Fancy's misty light,     Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam       Portentous through the night       Upon its midnight battle ground       The spectral camp is seen,     And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,       Flows the River of Life between       No other voice, nor sound is there,       In the army of the grave      No other challenge breaks the air,       But the rushing of Life's wave       And, when the solemn and deep church bell       Entreats the soul to pray,     The midnight phantoms feel the spell,       The shadows sweep away       Down the broad Vale of Tears afar       The spectral camp is fled      Faith shineth as a morning star,       Our ghastly fears are dead                   H  W        _'S  ,    _       'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won     By Philip's warlike son--     Aloft in awful state     The godlike hero sate     On his imperial throne      His valiant peers were placed around,     Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound     (So should desert in arms be crown'd)      The lovely Thais by his side     Sate like a blooming eastern bride     In flower of youth and beauty's pride:--     Happy, happy, happy pair!     None but the brave     None but the brave     None but the brave deserves the fair!  [Illustration]        Timotheus placed on high     Amid the tuneful quire     With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:     The trembling notes ascend the sky     And heavenly joys inspire      The song began from Jove     Who left his blissful seats above--     Such is the power of mighty love!     A dragon's fiery form belied the god      Sublime on radiant spires he rode     When he to fair Olympia prest,     And while he sought her snowy breast      Then round her slender waist he curl'd,     And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world      --The listening crowd admire the lofty sound!     A present deity! they shout around:     A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound!     With ravish'd ears     The monarch hears,     Assumes the god,     Affects to nod     And seems to shake the spheres         The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung--     Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:     The jolly god in triumph comes!     Sound the trumpets, beat the drums!     Flush'd with a purple grace     He shows his honest face:     Now give the hautboys breath  he comes, he comes!     Bacchus, ever fair and young,     Drinking joys did first ordain      Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,     Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:     Sweet the pleasure,     Sweet is pleasure after pain         Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain      Fought all his battles o'er again,     And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain!     The master saw the madness rise,     His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes      And while he Heaven and Earth defied     Changed his hand and check'd his pride      He chose a mournful Muse     Soft pity to infuse:     He sung Darius great and good,     By too severe a fate     Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,     Fallen from his high estate,     And weltering in his blood      Deserted, at his utmost need,     By those his former bounty fed      On the bare earth exposed he lies     With not a friend to close his eyes      --With downcast looks the joyless victor sate,     Revolving in his alter'd soul     The various turns of Chance below      And now and then a sigh he stole,     And tears began to flow         The mighty master smiled to see     That love was in the next degree      'Twas but a kindred sound to move,     For pity melts the mind to love      Softly sweet, in Lydian measures     Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures      War, he sung, is toil and trouble,     Honour but an empty bubble,     Never ending, still beginning      Fighting still, and still destroying      If the world be worth thy winning,     Think, O think, it worth enjoying:     Lovely Thais sits beside thee,     Take the good the gods provide thee!     --The many rend the skies with loud applause      So Love was crown'd, but Music won the cause      The prince, unable to conceal his pain,     Gazed on the fair     Who caused his care,     And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,     Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:     At length with love and wine at once opprest     The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast           Now strike the golden lyre again:     A louder yet, and yet a louder strain!     Break his bands of sleep asunder     And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder      Hark, hark! the horrid sound     Has raised up his head:     As awaked from the dead     And amazed he stares around      Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries,     See the Furies arise!     See the snakes that they rear     How they hiss in their hair,     And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!     Behold a ghastly band     Each a torch in his hand!     Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain     And unburied remain     Inglorious on the plain:     Give the vengeance due     To the valiant crew!     Behold how they toss their torches on high,     How they point to the Persian abodes     And glittering temples of their hostile gods      --The princes applaud with a furious joy:     And the King seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy      Thais led the way     To light him to his prey,     And like another Helen, fired another Troy!  [Illustration]      --Thus, long ago,     Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow,     While organs yet were mute,     Timotheus, to his breathing flute     And sounding lyre     Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire      At last divine Cecilia came,     Inventress of the vocal frame      The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store     Enlarged the former narrow bounds,     And added length to solemn sounds,     With Nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before      --Let old Timotheus yield the prize     Or both divide the crown      He raised a mortal to the skies      She drew an angel down!                               J        _     _       Come live with me and be my love,     And we will all the pleasures prove     That hills and vallies, dales and fields,     And woods or steepy mountain yields       And we will sit upon the rocks,     Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks     By shallow rivers to whose falls     Melodious birds sing madrigals       And I will make thee beds of roses     And a thousand fragrant posies,     A cap of flowers, and a kirtle     Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle       A gown made of the finest wool,     Which from our pretty lambs we pull,     Fair-linèd slippers for the cold,     With buckles of the purest gold       A belt of straw and ivy-buds     With coral clasps and amber studs,     An' if these pleasures may thee move,     Come live with me, and be my love   [Illustration]      Thy silver dishes for thy meat     As precious as the gods do eat,     Shall on an ivory table be     Prepar'd each day for thee and me       The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing     For thy delight each May-morning:     If these delights thy mind may move,     Then live with me, and be my love                                C        _  O'  _       I've heard them lilting, at the ewe-milking,       Lasses a' lilting, before dawn o' day      But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning        The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae       At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning        Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae      Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing        Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae       In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,       Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray      At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching        The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae       At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming       'Bout stacks, wi' the lasses at bogles to play      But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie--       The Flowers o' the Forest are weded awae       Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!       The English, for ance, by guile wan the day      The Flowers o' the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,       The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay       We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe-milking        Women and bairns are heartless and wae:     Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning--       The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae                                     E        __   I      The skies they were ashen and sober          The leaves they were crispèd and sere,--         The leaves they were withering and sere      It was night in the lonesome October         Of my most immemorial year      It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,         In the misty mid region of Weir,--     It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,         In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir          Here once, through an alley Titanic         Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,--         Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul      These were days when my heart was volcanic         As the scoriac rivers that roll,--         As the lavas that restlessly roll     Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek         In the ultimate climes of the pole,--     That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek         In the realms of the boreal pole          Our talk had been serious and sober,         But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,--         Our memories were treacherous and sere      For we knew not the month was October,         And we marked not the night of the year         (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)     We noted not the dim lake of Auber--         (Though once we had journeyed down here),     Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,         Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir          And now, as the night was senescent,         And star-dials pointed to morn,--         As the sun-dials hinted of morn,     At the end of our path a liquescent         And nebulous lustre was born,     Out of which a miraculous crescent         Arose with a duplicate horn,--     Astartè's bediamonded crescent         Distinct with its duplicate horn    V      And I said, 'She is warmer than Dian:         She rolls through an ether of sighs,--         She revels in a region of sighs:     She has seen that the tears are not dry on         These cheeks, where the worm never dies,     And has come past the stars of the Lion:         To point us the path to the skies--         To the Lethean peace of the skies      Come up in despite of the Lion,         To shine on us with her bright eyes      Come up through the lair of the Lion,         With love in her luminous eyes '         But Psyche, uplifting her finger,         Said--'Sadly, this star I mistrust--         Her pallor I strangely mistrust--     Oh, hasten!--oh, let us not linger!         Oh, fly!--let us fly!--for we must '     In terror she spoke, letting sink her         Wings until they trailed in the dust--     In agony sobbed, letting sink her         Plumes till they trailed in the dust--     Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust   [Illustration]         I replied 'This is nothing but dreaming:         Let us on by this tremulous light          Let us bathe in this crystalline light:     Its sibyllic splendour is beaming         With hope and in beauty to-night:--         See!--it flickers up the sky through the night!     Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,         And be sure it will lead us aright--     We safely may trust to a gleaming         That cannot but guide us aright,         Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night '         Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,         And tempted her out of her gloom--         And conquered her scruples and gloom      And we passed to the end of a vista,         But were stopped by the door of a tomb--         By the door of a legended tomb      And I said, 'What is written, sweet sister,         On the door of this legended tomb?'         She replied:--'Ulalume--Ulalume--         'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'         Then my heart it grew ashen and sober         As the leaves that were crisped and sere,         As the leaves that were withering and sere      And I cried--'It was surely October         On _this_ very night of last year,         That I journeyed--I journeyed down here--         That I brought a dread burden down here!         On this night of all nights in the year          Ah, what demon has tempted me here?         Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--             This misty mid region of Weir--         Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,--             This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir '                                    E  A        _ _  A   A        In Xanadu did Kubla Khan     A stately pleasure-dome decree:     Where Alph, the sacred river, ran     Through caverns measureless to man         Down to a sunless sea      So twice five miles of fertile ground     With walls and towers were girdled round:     And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills     Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree      And here were forests ancient as the hills,     Enfolding sunny spots of greenery       But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted     Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!     A savage place! as holy and enchanted     As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted     By woman wailing for her demon-lover!     And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething     As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,     A mighty fountain momently was forced:     Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst     Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,     Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail      And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever     It flung up momently the sacred river      Five miles meandering with a mazy motion     Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,     Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,     And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:     And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far     Ancestral voices prophesying war!     The shadow of the dome of pleasure     Floated midway on the waves      Where was heard the mingled measure     From the fountain and the caves      It was a miracle of rare device,     A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!  [Illustration]      A damsel with a dulcimer     In a vision once I saw:     It was an Abyssinian maid,     And on her dulcimer she played,     Singing of Mount Abora      Could I revive within me     Her symphony and song,       To such a deep delight 'twould win me     That with music loud and long,     I would build that dome in air,     That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!     And all who heard should see them there     And all should cry, Beware! Beware!     His flashing eyes, his floating hair!     Weave a circle round him thrice,     And close your eyes with holy dread     For he on honey-dew hath fed,     And drunk the milk of Paradise                  S  T        _L'_       Hence, loathèd Melancholy,       Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born     In Stygian cave forlorn       'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy!     Find out some uncouth cell       Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings       And the night-raven sings          There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks       As ragged as thy locks,         In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell   [Illustration]        But come, thou Goddess fair and free,     In heaven yclept Euphrosynè,     And by men, heart-easing Mirth,     Whom lovely Venus at a birth     With two sister Graces more     To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore:     Or whether (as some sager sing)     The frolic wind that breathes the spring     Zephyr, with Aurora playing,     As he met her once a-Maying--     There on beds of violets blue     And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew     Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair,     So buxom, blithe, and debonair        Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee     Jest, and youthful jollity,     Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,     Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles     Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,     And love to live in dimple sleek      Sport that wrinkled Care derides,     And Laughter holding both his sides:--     Come, and trip it as you go     On the light fantastic toe      And in thy right hand lead with thee     The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty      And if I give thee honour due,     Mirth, admit me of thy crew,     To live with her, and live with thee     In unreprovèd pleasures free      To hear the lark begin his flight     And singing startle the dull night     From his watch-tower in the skies,     Till the dappled dawn doth rise      Then to come, in spite of sorrow,     And at my window bid good-morrow     Through the sweetbriar, or the vine,     Or the twisted eglantine:     While the cock with lively din     Scatters the rear of darkness thin,     And to the stack, or the barn-door,     Stoutly struts his dames before:     Oft listening how the hounds and horn     Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn:     From the side of some hoar hill,     Through the high wood echoing shrill      Sometime walking, not unseen,     By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green,     Right against the eastern gate     Where the great Sun begins his state     Robed in flames and amber light      The clouds in thousand liveries dight      While the ploughman, near at hand,     Whistles o'er the furrow'd land,     And the milkmaid singeth blithe,     And the mower whets his scythe,     And every shepherd tells his tale     Under the hawthorn in the dale        Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures     Whilst the landscape round it measures      Russet lawns, and fallows gray,     Where the nibbling flocks do stray      Mountains, on whose barren breast     The labouring clouds do often rest      Meadows trim with daisies pied,     Shallow brooks, and rivers wide      Towers and battlements it sees     Bosom'd high in tufted trees,     Where perhaps some Beauty lies,     The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes        Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes     From betwixt two agèd oaks,     Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met,     Are at their savoury dinner set     Of herbs, and other country messes     Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses      And then in haste her bower she leaves     With Thestylis to bind the sheaves      Or, if the earlier season lead,     To the tann'd haycock in the mead        Sometimes with secure delight     The upland hamlets will invite,     When the merry bells ring round,     And the jocund rebecks sound     To many a youth and many a maid,     Dancing in the chequer'd shade      And young and old come forth to play     On a sunshine holy-day,     Till the live-long daylight fail:     Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,     With stories told of many a feat,     How faery Mab the junkets eat      She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said      And he, by friar's lantern led      Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat     To earn his cream-bowl duly set,     When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,     His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn     That ten day-labourers could not end      Then lies him down the lubber fiend,     And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,     Basks at the fire his hairy strength      And crop-full out of doors he flings,     Ere the first cock his matin rings        Thus done the tales, to bed they creep      By whispering winds soon lulled asleep        Tower'd cities please us then     And the busy hum of men,     Where throngs of knights and barons bold,     In weeds of peace high triumphs hold,     With store of ladies, whose bright eyes     Rain influence, and judge the prize     Of wit or arms, while both contend     To win her grace, whom all commend      There let Hymen oft appear     In saffron robe, with taper clear,     And pomp, and feast, and revelry,     With mask, and antique pageantry:     Such sights as youthful poets dream     On summer eves by haunted stream      Then to the well-trod stage anon,     If Jonson's learned sock be on,     Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child      Warble his native wood-notes wild        And ever against eating cares     Lap me in soft Lydian airs     Married to immortal verse,     Such as the meeting soul may pierce     In notes, with many a winding bout     Of linkèd sweetness long drawn out      With wanton heed and giddy cunning,     The melting voice through mazes running,     Untwisting all the chains that tie     The hidden soul of harmony      That Orpheus' self may heave his head     From golden slumber, on a bed     Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear     Such strains as would have won the ear     Of Pluto, to have quite set free     His half-regain'd Eurydicè        These delights if thou canst give,     Mirth, with thee I mean to live                       J    [Illustration]     _ _       Hence, vain deluding Joys,       The brood of Folly without father bred!     How little you bestead       Or fill the fixèd mind with all your toys!     Dwell in some idle brain,       And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess     As thick and numberless       As the gay motes that people the sunbeams,     Or likest hovering dreams       The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train         But hail, thou goddess sage and holy,     Hail, divinest Melancholy!     Whose saintly visage is too bright     To hit the sense of human sight,     And therefore to our weaker view     O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue      Black, but such as in esteem     Prince Memnon's sister might beseem,     Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove     To set her beauty's praise above     The sea nymphs, and their powers offended     Yet thou art higher far descended:     Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore,     To solitary Saturn bore      His daughter she  in Saturn's reign     Such mixture was not held a stain:     Oft in glimmering bowers and glades     He met her, and in secret shades     Of woody Ida's inmost grove,     While yet there was no fear of Jove        Come, pensive nun, devout and pure,     Sober, steadfast, and demure,     All in a robe of darkest grain     Flowing with majestic train,     And sable stole of cypress lawn     Over thy decent shoulders drawn:     Come, but keep thy wonted state,     With even step, and musing gait,     And looks commercing with the skies,     Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:     There, held in holy passion still,     Forget thyself to marble, till,     With a sad leaden downward cast,     Thou fix them on the earth as fast      And join with thee, calm Peace, and Quiet     Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,     And hears the Muses in a ring     Aye round about Jove's altar sing:     And add to these retired Leisure,     That in trim gardens takes his pleasure:--     But first, and chiefest, with thee bring     Him that yon soars on golden wing,     Guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne,     The cherub Contemplatiòn      And the mute Silence hist along,     'Less Philomel will deign a song     In her sweetest, saddest plight,     Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,     While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke     Gently o'er the accustom'd oak      --Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,     Most musical, most melancholy!     Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among     I woo, to hear thy even-song      And missing thee, I walk unseen     On the dry, smooth-shaven green,     To behold the wandering Moon     Riding near her highest noon,     Like one that had been led astray     Through the heaven's wide pathless way     And oft, as if her head she bow'd,     Stooping through a fleecy cloud        Oft, on a plat of rising ground     I hear the far-off curfeu sound     Over some wide-water'd shore,     Swinging slow with sullen roar:     Or, if the air will not permit,     Some still removèd place will fit,     Where glowing embers through the room     Teach light to counterfeit a gloom      Far from all resort of mirth,     Save the cricket on the hearth,     Or the bellman's drowsy charm     To bless the doors from nightly harm   [Illustration]        Or let my lamp at midnight hour     Be seen in some high lonely tower,     Where I may oft out-watch the Bear     With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere     The spirit of Plato, to unfold     What worlds or what vast regions hold     The immortal mind, that hath forsook     Her mansion in this fleshly nook      And of those demons that are found     In fire, air, flood, or under ground,     Whose power hath a true consent     With planet, or with element      Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy     In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,     Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,     Or the tale of Troy divine      Or what (though rare) of later age     Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage        But, O sad Virgin, that thy power     Might raise Musaeus from his bower,     Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing     Such notes as, warbled to the string,     Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek     And made Hell grant what Love did seek,     Or call up him that left half-told     The story of Cambuscan bold,     Of Camball, and of Algarsife,     And who had Canacè to wife     That own'd the virtuous ring and glass      And of the wondrous horse of brass     On which the Tartar king did ride:     And if aught else great bards beside     In sage and solemn tunes have sung     Of turneys, and of trophies hung,     Of forests, and enchantments drear,     Where more is meant than meets the ear        Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,     Till civil-suited Morn appear     Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont     With the Attic Boy to hunt,     But kercheft in a comely cloud     While rocking winds are piping loud,     Or usher'd with a shower still,     When the gust hath blown his fill,     Ending on the rustling leaves     With minute-drops from off the eaves   [Illustration]      And when the sun begins to fling     His flaring beams, me, Goddess bring     To archèd walks of twilight groves,     And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves,     Of pine, or monumental oak,     Where the rude axe, with heavèd stroke,     Was never heard the nymphs to daunt     Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt      There in close covert by some brook     Where no profaner eye may look,     Hide me from day's garish eye,     While the bee with honey'd thigh     That at her flowery work doth sing,     And the waters murmuring,     With such concert as they keep,     Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep      And let some strange mysterious dream     Wave at his wings in aery stream     Of lively portraiture display'd,     Softly on my eyelids laid:     And, as I wake, sweet music breathe     Above, about, or underneath,     Sent by some spirit to mortals good,     Or the unseen Genius of the wood        But let my due feet never fail     To walk the studious cloister's pale,     And love the high-embowèd roof,     With antique pillars massy proof,     And storied windows richly dight,     Casting a dim religious light:     There let the pealing organ blow     To the full-voiced quire below     In service high and anthems clear,     As may with sweetness, through mine ear,     Dissolve me into ecstasies,     And bring all Heaven before mine eyes        And may at last my weary age     Find out the peaceful hermitage,     The hairy gown and mossy cell,     Where I may sit and rightly spell     Of every star that heaven doth show,     And every herb that sips the dew      Till old experience do attain     To something like prophetic strain        These pleasures, Melancholy, give,     And I with thee will choose to live                       J        _  _   I      'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?       Why weep ye by the tide?     I'll wed ye to my youngest son,       And ye sall be his bride:     And ye sall be his bride, ladie,       Sae comely to be seen'--     But aye she loot the tears down fa'       For Jock of Hazeldean          'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,       And dry that cheek so pale      Young Frank is chief of Errington,       And lord of Langley-dale      His step is first in peaceful ha',       His sword in battle keen'--     But aye she loot the tears down fa'       For Jock of Hazeldean          'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,       Nor braid to bind your hair      Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,       Nor palfrey fresh and fair      And you, the foremost o' them a',       Shall ride our forest queen'--     But aye she loot the tears down fa'       For Jock of Hazeldean   [Illustration: '     , ?']         The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,       The tapers glimmer'd fair      The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,       And dame and knight are there      They sought her baith by bower and ha'       The ladie was not seen!     She's o'er the Border, and awa'       Wi' Jock of Hazeldean                                W        _ _       We wander'd to the pine forest       That skirts the ocean's foam      The lightest wind was in its nest,       The tempest in its home      The whispering waves were half asleep,       The clouds were gone to play,     And on the bosom of the deep       The smile of heaven lay      It seem'd as if the hour were one       Sent from beyond the skies,     Which scatter'd from above the sun       A light of paradise!      We paused amid the pines that stood       The giants of the waste,     Tortured by storms to shapes as rude       As serpents interlaced,     And soothed, by every azure breath       That under heaven is blown,     To harmonies and hues beneath,       As tender as its own      Now all the tree-tops lay asleep       Like green waves on the sea,     As still as in the silent deep       The ocean woods may be       How calm it was!--the silence there       By such a chain was bound     That even the busy woodpecker       Made stiller by her sound     The inviolable quietness        The breath of peace we drew     With its soft motion made not less       The calm that round us grew      There seemed, from the remotest seat       Of the white mountain waste     To the soft flower beneath our feet,       A magic circle traced,--     A spirit interfused around,       A thrilling silent life:     To momentary peace it bound       Our mortal nature's strife      And still, I felt, the centre of       The magic circle there     Was one fair form that fill'd with love       The lifeless atmosphere       We paused beside the pools that lie       Under the forest bough      Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky       Gulf'd in a world below:     A firmament of purple light       Which in the dark earth lay,     More boundless than the depth of night       And purer than the day--     In which the lovely forests grew       As in the upper air,     More perfect both in shape and hue       Than any spreading there      There lay the glade, the neighbouring lawn,       And through the dark-green wood     The white sun twinkling like the dawn       Out of a speckled cloud      Sweet views which in our world above       Can never well be seen     Were imaged by the water's love       Of that fair forest green      And all was interfused beneath       With an Elysian glow,     An atmosphere without a breath,       A softer day below       Like one beloved, the scene had lent       To the dark water's breast     Its every leaf and lineament       With more than truth exprest      Until an envious wind crept by,--       Like an unwelcome thought     Which from the mind's too faithful eye       Blots one dear image out      Though Thou art ever fair and kind,       And forests ever green,     Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind       Than calm in waters seen                           P  B        _  _       When the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame,     And a' the warld to rest are gane,     The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,     While my gudeman lies sound by me       Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride      But saving a croun he had naething else beside:     To make the croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea      And the croun and the pund were baith for me       He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,     When my father brak his arm, and the cow was stown awa'      My mother she fell sick, and my Jamie at the sea--     And auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me       My father couldna work, and my mother couldna spin      I toil'd day and night, but their bread I couldna win      Auld Rob maintain'd them baith, and wi' tears in his e'e     Said, 'Jennie, for their sakes, O, marry me!'      My heart it said nay  I look'd for Jamie back      But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack     His ship it was a wrack--why didna Jamie dee,     Or why do I live to cry, Wae's me?  [Illustration]      My father urgit sair: my mother didna speak      But she look'd in my face till my heart was like to break:     They gi'ed him my hand, but my heart was at the sea:     Sae auld Robin Gray he was gudeman to me       I hadna been a wife a week but only four,     When mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,     I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I couldna think it he--     Till he said, 'I'm come hame to marry thee '      --O sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say      We took but ae kiss, and I bad him gang away:     I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee      And why was I born to say, Wae's me!      I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin      I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin      But I'll do my best a gude wife aye to be,     For auld Robin Gray he is kind unto me                                   A        _   _       Down in yon garden sweet and gay       Where bonnie grows the lily,     I heard a fair maid sighing say,       'My wish be wi' sweet Willie!      'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,       And Willie's wondrous bonny      And Willie hecht to marry me       Gin e'er he married ony       'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,       From where my Love repaireth,     Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth       And tell me how he fareth!      'O tell sweet Willie to come doun       And hear the mavis singing,     And see the birds on ilka bush       And leaves around them hinging      'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast       And gentle throat sae narrow:     There's sport eneuch for gentlemen       On Leader-haughs and Yarrow       'O Leader-haughs are wide and braid       And Yarrow-haughs are bonny      There Willie hecht to marry me       If e'er he married ony       'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,       And does not hear me weeping      Draws many a tear frae true love's e'e       When other maids are sleeping       'O came ye by yon water-side?       Pou'd you the rose or lily?     Or came you by yon meadow green,       Or saw you my sweet Willie?'      She sought him up, she sought him down,       She sought him braid and narrow      Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,       She found him drown'd in Yarrow!                                     _    _       At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,     Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:     Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard     In the silence of morning the song of the Bird       'Tis a note of enchantment  what ails her? She sees     A mountain ascending, a vision of trees      Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,     And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside       Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,     Down which she so often has tripped with her pail      And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,     The one only dwelling on earth that she loves   [Illustration: ,     A  ]      She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade      The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:     The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,     And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!                                        W        _ _  A        Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise      I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,     When that great fleet invincible against her bore in vain     The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of Spain         It was about the lovely close of a warm summer day,     There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay      Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle,     At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile      At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace      And the tall 'Pinta,' till the noon, had held her close in chase      Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall      The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall      Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast,     And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post      With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes      Behind him march the halberdiers  before him sound the drums      His yeomen round the market cross make clear an ample space      For there behoves him to set up the standard of Her Grace      And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells     As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon swells      Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown,     And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down      So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field,     Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield      So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay,     And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay      Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers,           fair maids:     Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades:     Thou sun, shine on her joyously  ye breezes, waft her wide      Our glorious  , the banner of our pride   [Illustration]        The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold      The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold      Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea,     Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be      From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,     That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day      For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread,     High on St  Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head      Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,     Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire      The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves:     The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves!     O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery           herald flew:     He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu   [Illustration]      Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from           Bristol town,     And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down      The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,     And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill the streak of blood-red light,     Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the deathlike silence broke,     And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke      At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires      At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires      From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear      And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer      And from the farthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet,     And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each          roaring street      And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din,     As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in:  [Illustration]      And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went,     And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent      Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright           couriers forth      High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north      And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still:     All night from tower to tower they sprang  they sprang from          hill to hill:     Till the proud peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales,     Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales,     Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height,     Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light,     Till broad and fierce the star came forth on Ely's stately fane,     And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain      Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent,     And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent      Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile,     And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle                                                                                                                     _ _       When captaines couragious, whom death cold not daunte,     Did march to the siege of the citty of Gaunt,     They mustred their souldiers by two and by three,     And the formost in battle was Mary Ambree       When the brave sergeant-major was slaine in her sight,     Who was her true lover, her joy, and delight,     Because he was slaine most treacherouslie     Then vowd to revenge him Mary Ambree       She clothed herselfe from the top to the toe     In buffe of the bravest, most seemelye to showe      A faire shirt of mail then slipped on shee:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      A helmett of proofe shee strait did provide,     A stronge arminge-sword shee girt by her side,     On her hand a goodly faire gauntlett put shee:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?  [Illustration]      Then tooke shee her sworde and her targett in hand,     Bidding all such, as wold, to bee of her band      To wayte on her person came thousand and three:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      'My soldiers,' she saith, 'soe valliant and bold,     Nowe followe your captaine, whom you doe beholde      Still formost in battell myselfe will I bee:'     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      Then cryed out her souldiers, and loude they did say,     'Soe well thou becomest this gallant array,     Thy harte and thy weapons so well do agree,     Noe mayden was ever like Mary Ambree '      She cheared her souldiers, that foughten for life      With ancyent and standard, with drum and with fife,     With brave clanging trumpetts, that sounded so free      Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      'Before I will see the worst of you all     To come into danger of death or of thrall,     This hand and this life I will venture so free:'     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      Shee ledd upp her souldiers in battaile array,     Gainst three times theyr number by breake of the daye      Seven howers in skirmish continued shee:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      She filled the skyes with the smoke of her shott,     And her enemyes bodyes with bulletts so hott      For one of her owne men a score killed shee:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      And when her false gunner, to spoyle her intent,     Away all her pellets and powder had sent,     Straight with her keen weapon she slasht him in three:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      Being falselye betrayed for lucre of hyre,     At length she was forced to make a retyre      Then her souldiers into a strong castle drew shee:     Was not this a brave bonny lasse, Mary Ambree?      Her foes they besett her on everye side,     As thinking close siege shee cold never abide      To beate down the walles they all did decree:     But stoutlye deffyd them brave Mary Ambree       Then tooke shee her sword and her targett in hand,     And mounting the walls all undaunted did stand,     There daring their captaines to match any three:     O what a brave captaine was Mary Ambree!      'Now saye, English captaine, what woldest thou give     To ransome thy selfe, which else must not live?     Come yield thy selfe quicklye, or slaine thou must bee:'     Then smiled sweetlye brave Mary Ambree       'Ye captaines couragious, of valour so bold,     Whom thinke you before you now you doe behold?'     'A knight, sir, of England, and captaine soe free,     Who shortlye with us a prisoner must bee '      'No captaine of England  behold in your sight     Two brests in my bosome, and therefore no knight:     Noe knight, sirs, of England, nor captaine you see,     But a poor simple mayden called Mary Ambree '      'But art thou a woman, as thou dost declare,     Whose valor hath proved so undaunted in warre?     If England doth yield such brave maydens as thee,     Full well may they conquer, faire Mary Ambree '      The Prince of Great Parma heard of her renowne,     Who long had advanced for England's fair crowne      Hee wooed her and sued her his mistress to bee,     And offered rich presents to Mary Ambree       But this virtuous mayden despised them all:     ''Ile nere sell my honour for purple nor pall      A mayden of England, sir, never will bee     The wench of a monarcke,' quoth Mary Ambree       Then to her owne country shee backe did returne,     Still holding the foes of faire England in scorne      Therfore English captaines of every degree     Sing forth the brave valours of Mary Ambree                           _  _       You meaner beauties of the night,       Which poorly satisfy our eyes     More by your number than your light,       You common-people of the skies,     What are you when the Moon shall rise?      Ye violets that first appear,       By your pure purple mantles known,     Like the proud virgins of the year,       As if the spring were all your own,--     What are you when the Rose is blown?      Ye curious chanters of the wood,       That warble forth dame Nature's lays,     Thinking your passions understood       By your weak accents  what's your praise     When Philomel her voice doth raise?      So when my Mistress shall be seen       In form and beauty of her mind,     By virtue first, then choice, a Queen,       Tell me, if she were not design'd     Th' eclipse and glory of her kind?                            H        _ _       There is a garden in her face       Where roses and white lilies blow      A heavenly paradise is that place,       Wherein all pleasant fruits do grow      There cherries grow that none may buy,     Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry       Those cherries fairly do enclose       Of orient pearl a double row,     Which when her lovely laughter shows,       They look like rose-buds fill'd with snow:     Yet them no peer nor prince may buy,     Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry       Her eyes like angels watch them still        Her brows like bended bows do stand,     Threat'ning with piercing frowns to kill       All that approach with eye or hand,     These sacred cherries to come nigh,     --Till Cherry Ripe themselves do cry!                                        __       Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,       With night we banish sorrow,     Sweet air blow soft, mount Lark aloft       To give my Love good-morrow      Wings from the wind, to please her mind,       Notes from the Lark I'll borrow      Bird prune thy wing, Nightingale sing,       To give my Love good-morrow          To give my Love good-morrow         Notes from them all I'll borrow       Wake from thy nest, Robin Red-breast,       Sing birds in every furrow,     And from each hill, let music shrill,       Give my fair Love good-morrow:     Black-bird and thrush, in every bush,       Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow!     You pretty elves, amongst yourselves       Sing my fair Love good-morrow            To give my Love good-morrow           Sing birds in every furrow                             T        _  _       The glories of our blood and state         Are shadows, not substantial things      There is no armour against fate          Death lays his icy hand on kings:               Sceptre and Crown               Must tumble down,     And in the dust be equal made     With the poor crooked scythe and spade       Some men with swords may reap the field,         And plant fresh laurels where they kill      But their strong nerves at last must yield          They tame but one another still:               Early or late               They stoop to fate,     And must give up their murmuring breath,     When they, pale captives, creep to death       The garlands wither on your brow,         Then boast no more your mighty deeds      Upon Death's purple altar now,         See where the victor-victim bleeds:               Your heads must come               To the cold tomb,     Only the actions of the just     Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust                               J        _ _       Annan Water's wading deep,       And my Love Annie's wondrous bonny      And I am loath she should wet her feet,       Because I love her best of ony '      He's loupen on his bonny gray,       He rode the right gate and the ready      For all the storm he wadna stay,       For seeking of his bonny lady       And he has ridden o'er field and fell,       Through moor, and moss, and many a mire      His spurs of steel were sair to bide,       And from her four feet flew the fire       'My bonny gray, now play your part!       If ye be the steed that wins my dearie,     With corn and hay ye'll be fed for aye,       And never spur shall make you wearie '      The gray was a mare, and a right gude mare,       But when she wan the Annan Water,     She could not have ridden the ford that night       Had a thousand merks been wadded at her       'O boatman, boatman, put off your boat,       Put off your boat for golden money!'     But for all the gold in fair Scotland,       He dared not take him through to Annie       'O I was sworn so late yestreen,       Not by a single oath, but mony!     I'll cross the drumly stream to-night,       Or never could I face my honey '      The side was stey, and the bottom deep,       From bank to brae the water pouring      The bonny gray mare she swat for fear,       For she heard the water-kelpy roaring       He spurr'd her forth into the flood,       I wot she swam both strong and steady      But the stream was broad, and her strength did fail,       And he never saw his bonny lady!                                       _ A _               Whither, 'midst falling dew,     While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,     Far through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue             Thy solitary way?              Vainly the fowler's eye     Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,     As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,             Thy figure floats along               Seek'st thou the plashy brink     Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,     Or where the rocking billows rise and sink             On the chafed ocean side?              There is a Power whose care     Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,--     The desert and illimitable air,--             Lone wandering, but not lost               All day thy wings have fann'd,     At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere      Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,             Though the dark night is near               And soon that toil shall end      Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest     And scream among thy fellows  reeds shall bend             Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest   [Illustration]              Thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven     Hath swallow'd up thy form--yet on my heart     Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,              And shall not soon depart               He, who from zone to zone     Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,     In the long way that I must tread alone,             Will lead my steps aright                              W  C        _, '    A _   I      So, we'll go no more a roving       So late into the night,     Though the heart be still as loving        And the moon be still as bright          For the sword outwears its sheath,       And the soul wears out the breast,     And the heart must pause to breathe,       And love itself have rest          Though the night was made for loving,       And the day returns too soon,     Yet we'll go no more a roving       By the light of the moon                                  __       Where the bee sucks, there suck I:     In a cowslip's bell I lie      There I couch, when owls do cry:     On the bat's back I do fly     After summer merrily          Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,         Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!      Come unto these yellow sands,         And then take hands:     Courtsied when you have and kiss'd         The wild waves whist,     Foot it featly here and there      And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear          Hark, hark!             Bow-wow          The watch-dogs bark:             Bow-wow          Hark, hark! I hear     The strain of strutting chanticleer         Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!                        W        _  O'  _       I'm wearin' awa', Jean,     Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,     I'm wearin' awa'       To the land o' the leal      There's nae sorrow there, Jean,     There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,     The day is aye fair       In the land o' the leal       Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,     Your task's ended noo, Jean,     And I'll welcome you       To the land o' the leal      Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,     She was baith guid and fair, Jean      O we grudged her right sair       To the land o' the leal!      Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,     My soul langs to be free, Jean,     And angels wait on me       To the land o' the leal      Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,     This warld's care is vain, Jean      We'll meet and aye be fain       In the land o' the leal                              _     _       Where the remote Bermudas ride     In the ocean's bosom unespied,     From a small boat that row'd along     The listening winds received this song:     'What should we do but sing His praise     That led us through the watery maze     Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks     That lift the deep upon their backs,     Unto an isle so long unknown,     And yet far kinder than our own?     He lands us on a grassy stage,     Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage:     He gave us this eternal spring     Which here enamels everything,     And sends the fowls to us in care     On daily visits through the air      He hangs in shades the orange bright     Like golden lamps in a green night,     And does in the pomegranates close     Jewels more rich than Ormus shows:     He makes the figs our mouths to meet,     And throws the melons at our feet      But apples plants of such a price,     No tree could ever bear them twice!     With cedars chosen by his hand     From Lebanon he stores the land      And makes the hollow seas that roar     Proclaim the ambergris on shore      He cast (of which we rather boast)     The Gospel's pearl upon our coast      And in these rocks for us did frame     A temple where to sound His name      O let our voice His praise exalt     Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,     Which then perhaps rebounding may     Echo beyond the Mexique bay!'     --Thus sung they in the English boat     A holy and a cheerful note:     And all the way, to guide their chime,     With falling oars they kept the time                             A        _    _       Oft in the stilly night       Ere slumber's chain has bound me,     Fond Memory brings the light       Of other days around me:         The smiles, the tears         Of boyhood's years,       The words of love then spoken          The eyes that shone,         Now dimmed and gone,       The cheerful hearts now broken!     Thus in the stilly night       Ere slumber's chain has bound me,     Sad Memory brings the light       Of other days around me       When I remember all       The friends so link'd together     I've seen around me fall       Like leaves in wintry weather,         I feel like one         Who treads alone       Some banquet-hall deserted,         Whose lights are fled,         Whose garlands dead,       And all but he departed!     Thus in the stilly night       Ere slumber's chain has bound me,     Sad Memory brings the light       Of other days around me       T        _   -_       We sat within the farm-house old,       Whose windows, looking o'er the bay,     Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,       An easy entrance, night and day       Not far away we saw the port,       The strange, old-fashioned, silent town,     The light-house, the dismantled fort,       The wooden houses, quaint and brown       We sat and talked until the night,       Descending, filled the little room      Our faces faded from the sight,       Our voices only broke the gloom       We spake of many a vanished scene,       Of what we once had thought and said,     Of what had been, and might have been,       And who was changed, and who was dead       And all that fills the hearts of friends,       When first they feel, with secret pain,     Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,       And never can be one again       The first light swerving of the heart,       That words are powerless to express,     And leave it still unsaid in part,       Or say it in too great excess       The very tones in which we spake       Had something strange, I could but mark      The leaves of memory seemed to make       A mournful rustling in the dark       Oft died the words upon our lips,       As suddenly, from out the fire     Built of the wreck of stranded ships,       The flames would leap and then expire       And, as their splendour flashed and failed,       We thought of wrecks upon the main,--     Of ships dismasted, that were hailed       And sent no answer back again   [Illustration]      The windows, rattling in their frames,       The ocean, roaring up the beach,     The gusty blast, the bickering flames,       All mingled vaguely in our speech       Until they made themselves a part       Of fancies floating through the brain,     The long-lost ventures of the heart,       That send no answers back again       O flames that glowed! O hearts that yearned!       They were indeed too much akin,     The drift wood fire without that burned,       The thoughts that burned and glowed within                             H  W        _   _       The mountain sheep are sweeter,     But the valley sheep are fatter      We therefore deemed it meeter     To carry off the latter      We made an expedition      We met an host and quelled it      We forced a strong position,     And killed the men who held it       On Dyfed's richest valley,     Where herds of kine were browsing,     We made a mighty sally,     To furnish our carousing      Fierce warriors rushed to meet us      We met them, and o'erthrew them:     They struggled hard to beat us      But we conquered them, and slew them       As we drove our prize at leisure,     The king marched forth to catch us:     His rage surpassed all measure,     But his people could not match us      He fled to his hall-pillars      And, ere our force we led off,     Some sacked his house and cellars,     While others cut his head off       We there, in strife bewildering,     Spilt blood enough to swim in,     We orphaned many children,     And widowed many women      The eagles and the ravens     We glutted with our foemen     The heroes and the cravens,     The spearmen and the bowmen   [Illustration]      We brought away from battle,     And much their land bemoaned them,     Two thousand head of cattle,     And the head of him who owned them:     Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,     His head was borne before us      His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,     And his overthrow, our chorus                   T  L     [Illustration:            'S  ]     __         Arethusa arose       From her couch of snows     In the Acroceraunian mountains,--       From cloud and from crag,       With many a jag     Shepherding her bright fountains        She leapt down the rocks       With her rainbow locks     Streaming among the streams        Her steps paved with green       The downward ravine     Which slopes to the western gleams:       And gliding and springing,       She went, ever singing,     In murmurs as soft as sleep        The Earth seemed to love her       And Heaven smiled above her,     As she lingered towards the deep         Then Alpheus bold,       On his glacier cold,     With his trident the mountains strook,       And opened a chasm       In the rocks:--with the spasm     All Erymanthus shook        And the black south wind       It concealed behind     The urns of the silent snow,       And earthquake and thunder       Did rend in sunder       The bars of the springs below        The beard and the hair       Of the River-god were     Seen through the torrent's sweep,       As he followed the light       Of the fleet Nymph's flight     To the brink of the Dorian deep         'Oh, save me! Oh, guide me!       And bid the deep hide me      For he grasps me now by the hair!'       The loud Ocean heard,       To its blue depth stirred,     And divided at her prayer        And under the water       The Earth's white daughter     Fled like a sunny beam        Behind her descended,       Her billows, unblended     With the brackish Dorian stream        Like a gloomy stain       On the emerald main     Alpheus rushed behind,--       As an eagle pursuing       A dove to its ruin     Down the streams of the cloudy wind         Under the bowers       Where the Ocean Powers     Sit on their pearlèd thrones        Through the coral woods       Of the weltering floods      Over heaps of unvalued stones        Through the dim beams       Which amid the streams     Weave a network of coloured light        And under the caves,       Where the shadowy waves     Are as green as the forest's night:       Outspeeding the shark,       And the swordfish dark,--     Under the ocean foam,       And up through the rifts       Of the mountain clifts,--     They passed to their Dorian home         And now from their fountains       In Enna's mountains,     Down one vale where the morning basks,       Like friends once parted       Grown single-hearted,     They ply their watery tasks        At sunrise they leap       From their cradles steep     In the cave of the shelving hill        At noontide they flow       Through the woods below     And the meadows of asphodel        And at night they sleep       In the rocking deep     Beneath the Ortygian shore,--       Like spirits that lie       In the azure sky     When they love but live no more                     P  B        _   _       The day is done, and the darkness       Falls from the wings of Night,     As a feather is wafted downward       From an eagle in his flight       I see the lights of the village       Gleam through the rain and the mist,     And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me,       That my soul cannot resist       A feeling of sadness and longing,       That is not akin to pain,     And resembles sorrow only       As the mist resembles the rain       Come, read to me some poem,       Some simple and heartfelt lay,     That shall soothe this restless feeling,       And banish the thoughts of day       Not from the grand old masters,       Not from the bards sublime,     Whose distant footsteps echo       Through the corridors of Time       For, like strains of martial music,       Their mighty thoughts suggest     Life's endless toil and endeavour        And to-night I long for rest       Read from some humbler poet,       Whose songs gushed from his heart,     As showers from the clouds of summer,       Or tears from the eyelids start       Who, through long days of labour,       And nights devoid of ease,     Still heard in his soul the music       Of wonderful melodies       Such songs have power to quiet       The restless pulse of care,     And come like the benediction       That follows after prayer       Then read from the treasured volume       The poem of thy choice,     And lend to the rhyme of the poet       The beauty of thy voice       And the night shall be filled with music,       And the cares that infest the day     Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,       And as silently steal away                         H  W        __       A weary lot is thine, fair maid,       A weary lot is thine!     To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,       And press the rue for wine!     A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,       A feather of the blue,     A doublet of the Lincoln green,--       No more of me you knew,                           My love!     No more of me you knew   [Illustration]      'This morn is merry June, I trow,       The rose is budding fain      But she shall bloom in winter snow,       Ere we two meet again '     He turn'd his charger as he spake,       Upon the river shore,     He gave his bridle-reins a shake,       Said, 'Adieu for evermore,                             My love!     And adieu for evermore '                     W        _   _       We walked along, while bright and red       Uprose the morning sun:     And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said,       'The will of God be done!'      A village schoolmaster was he,       With hair of glittering grey      As blithe a man as you could see       On a spring holiday       And on that morning, through the grass,       And by the steaming rills,     We travelled merrily, to pass       A day among the hills       'Our work,' said I, 'was well begun        Then, from thy breast what thought,     Beneath so beautiful a sun,       So sad a sigh has brought?'      A second time did Matthew stop        And fixing still his eye     Upon the eastern mountain-top,       To me he made reply:      'Yon cloud with that long purple cleft       Brings fresh into my mind     A day like this which I have left       Full thirty years behind   [Illustration]      'And just above yon slope of corn       Such colours, and no other,     Were in the sky, that April morn,       Of this the very brother       'With rod and line I sued the sport       Which that sweet season gave,     And, to the church-yard come, stopped short       Beside my daughter's grave       'Nine summers had she scarcely seen,       The pride of all the vale      And then she sang --she would have been       A very nightingale       'Six feet in earth my Emma lay        And yet I loved her more,     For so it seemed, than till that day       I e'er had loved before       'And, turning from her grave, I met,       Beside the church-yard yew,     A blooming girl, whose hair was wet       With points of morning dew       'A basket on her head she bare        Her brow was smooth and white:     To see a child so very fair       It was a pure delight!      'No fountain from its rocky cave       E'er tripped with foot so free      She seemed as happy as a wave       That dances on the sea       'There came from me a sigh of pain       Which I could ill confine      I looked at her, and looked again,       And did not wish her mine!'      Matthew is in his grave, yet now,       Methinks, I see him stand,     As at that moment, with a bough       Of wilding in his hand                     W        _ _       Helen, thy beauty is to me       Like those Nicèan barks of yore     That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,       The weary wayworn wanderer bore       To his own native shore       On desperate seas long wont to roam,       Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,     Thy Naiad airs have brought me home       To the glory that was Greece,     To the grandeur that was Rome       Lo, in yon brilliant window-niche,       How statue-like I see thee stand,       The agate lamp within thy hand!     Ah, Psyche, from the regions which       Are holy land!                        E  A        _ _           Bird of the wilderness,         Blithesome and cumberless,     Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!         Emblem of happiness,         Blest is thy dwelling-place--     Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!          Wild is thy lay and loud,         Far in the downy cloud,     Love gives it energy, love gave it birth          Where, on thy dewy wing,         Where art thou journeying?     Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth           O'er fell and fountain sheen,         O'er moor and mountain green,     O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,         Over the cloudlet dim,         Over the rainbow's rim,     Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!          Then, when the gloaming comes,         Low in the heather blooms     Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!         Emblem of happiness,         Blest is thy dwelling-place--     Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!                               J        __       Fear no more the heat o' the sun       Nor the furious winter's rages      Thou thy worldly task hast done,       Home art gone and ta'en thy wages:     Golden lads and girls all must,     As chimney-sweepers, come to dust       Fear no more the frown o' the great,       Thou art past the tyrant's stroke      Care no more to clothe, and eat        To thee the reed is as the oak:     The sceptre, learning, physic, must     All follow this, and come to dust       Fear no more the lightning flash        Nor the all-dreaded thunder-tone     Fear not slander, censure rash        Thou hast finish'd joy and moan     All lovers young, all lovers must     Consign to thee, and come to dust                      W        _ _       The dews of summer night did fall        The moon, sweet Regent of the sky,     Silver'd the walls of Cumnor Hall,       And many an oak that grew thereby       Now nought was heard beneath the skies,       The sounds of busy life were still,     Save an unhappy lady's sighs       That issued from that lonely pile       'Leicester!' she cried, 'is this thy love       That thou so oft hast sworn to me,     To leave me in this lonely grove,       Immured in shameful privity?      'No more thou com'st with lover's speed       Thy once-belovèd bride to see      But, be she alive, or be she dead,       I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee       'Not so the usage I received       When happy in my father's hall      No faithless husband then me grieved,       No chilling fears did me appal       'I rose up with the cheerful morn,       No lark more blithe, no flower more gay      And like the bird that haunts the thorn       So merrily sung the livelong day       'If that my beauty is but small,       Among court ladies all despised,     Why didst thou rend it from that hall,       Where, scornful Earl! it well was prized?      'But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,       Or 'tis not beauty lures thy vows      Rather, ambition's gilded crown       Makes thee forget thy humble spouse       'Then, Leicester, why,--again I plead,       The injured surely may repine,--     Why didst thou wed a country maid,       When some fair Princess might be thine?      'Why didst thou praise my humble charms,       And oh! then leave them to decay?     Why didst thou win me to thy arms,       Then leave to mourn the livelong day?      'The village maidens of the plain       Salute me lowly as they go      Envious they mark my silken train,       Nor think a Countess can have woe       'How far less blest am I than them!       Daily to pine and waste with care!     Like the poor plant, that, from its stem       Divided, feels the chilling air       'My spirits flag--my hopes decay--       Still that dread death-bell smites my ear:     And many a boding seems to say,       Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'      Thus sore and sad that Lady grieved       In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear      And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,       And let fall many a bitter tear       And ere the dawn of day appear'd,       In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,     Full many a piercing scream was heard,       And many a cry of mortal fear       The death-bell thrice was heard to ring        An aerial voice was heard to call,     And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing       Around the towers of Cumnor Hall       The mastiff howl'd at village door,       The oaks were shatter'd on the green      Woe was the hour--for never more       That hapless Countess e'er was seen!      And in that manor now no more       Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball      For ever since that dreary hour       Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall       The village maids, with fearful glance,       Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall      Nor ever lead the merry dance       Among the groves of Cumnor Hall       Full many a traveller oft hath sigh'd,       And pensive wept the Countess' fall,     As wand'ring onwards they've espied       The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall                          W  F        _ A _                 Hail to thee, blithe spirit!                 Bird thou never wert--               That from heaven or near it                 Pourest thy full heart     In profuse strains of unpremeditated art                 Higher still and higher                 From the earth thou springest:               Like a cloud of fire,                 The blue deep thou wingest,     And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest                 In the golden lightning                 Of the sunken sun,               O'er which clouds are brightening,                 Thou dost float and run,     Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun                 The pale purple even                 Melts around thy flight                Like a star of heaven                 In the broad daylight,     Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight--                Keen as are the arrows                 Of that silver sphere               Whose intense lamp narrows                 In the white dawn clear,     Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there                 All the earth and air                 With thy voice is loud,               As, when night is bare,                 From one lonely cloud     The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd                 What thou art we know not                  What is most like thee?               From rainbow clouds there flow not                 Drops so bright to see     As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:--                Like a poet hidden                 In the light of thought,               Singing hymns unbidden,                 Till the world is wrought     To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:                Like a high-born maiden                 In a palace tower,               Soothing her love-laden                 Soul in secret hour     With music sweet as love which overflows her bower:                Like a glow-worm golden                 In a dell of dew,               Scattering unbeholden                 Its aërial hue     Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:                Like a rose embowered                 In its own green leaves,               By warm winds deflower'd,                 Till the scent it gives     Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves                 Sound of vernal showers                 On the twinkling grass,               Rain-awaken'd flowers,                 All that ever was,     Joyous and clear and fresh,--thy music doth surpass                 Teach us, sprite or bird,                 What sweet thoughts are thine:               I have never heard                 Praise of love or wine     That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine                 Chorus hymeneal                 Or triumphal chaunt,               Match'd with thine, would be all                 But an empty vaunt--     A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want                 What objects are the fountains                 Of thy happy strain?               What fields, or waves, or mountains?                 What shapes of sky or plain?     What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?                With thy clear keen joyance                 Languor cannot be:               Shadow of annoyance                 Never came near thee:     Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety                 Waking or asleep,                 Thou of death must deem               Things more true and deep                 Than we mortals dream,     Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?                We look before and after,                 And pine for what is not:               Our sincerest laughter                 With some pain is fraught      Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought                 Yet, if we could scorn,                 Hate and pride, and fear                If we were things born                 Not to shed a tear,     I know not how thy joy we ever should come near                 Better than all measures                 Of delightful sound,               Better than all treasures                 That in books are found,     Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!                Teach me half the gladness                 That thy brain must know                Such harmonious madness                 From my lips would flow     The world should listen then as I am listening now!                        P  B        _ _       As it fell upon a day     In the merry month of May,     Sitting in a pleasant shade,     Which a grove of myrtles made,     Beasts did leap and birds did sing,     Trees did grow and plants did spring,     Everything did banish moan     Save the nightingale alone      She, poor bird, as all forlorn,     Lean'd her breast against a thorn,     And there sung the dolefullest ditty     That to hear it was great pity      Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry      Tereu, tereu, by-and-by:     That to hear her so complain     Scarce I could from tears refrain      For her griefs so lively shown     Made me think upon mine own      --Ah, thought I, thou mourn'st in vain,     None takes pity on thy pain:     Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee,     Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer thee:     King Pandion, he is dead,     All thy friends are lapp'd in lead:     All thy fellow birds do sing     Careless of thy sorrowing:     Even so, poor bird, like thee     None alive will pity me                  R        _ _       At midnight, in the month of June,     I stand beneath the mystic moon:     An opiate vapour, dewy, dim,     Exhales from out her golden rim      And, softly dripping, drop by drop,     Upon the quiet mountain top,     Steals drowsily and musically     Into the universal valley      The rosemary nods upon the grave      The lily lolls upon the wave      Wrapping the fog about its breast,     The ruin moulders into rest      Looking like Lethe, see, the lake     A conscious slumber seems to take,     And would not, for the world, awake      All Beauty sleeps!--and, lo! where lies     (Her casement open to the skies)     Irene, with her destinies!      O, lady bright, can it be right,     This window open to the night?     The wanton airs from the tree-top,     Laughingly through the lattice drop      The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,     Flit through thy chamber in and out,     And wave the curtain canopy     So fitfully, so fearfully,     Above the closed and fringèd lid     'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,     That, o'er the floor and down the wall,     Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!     Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?     Why and what art thou dreaming here?     Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,     A wonder to these garden trees      Strange is thy pallor, strange thy dress,     Strange, above all, thy length of tress,     And this all-solemn silentness   [Illustration]      The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,     Which is enduring, so be deep!     Heaven have her in its sacred keep!     This chamber changed for one more holy,     This bed for one more melancholy,     I pray to God that she may lie     For ever with unopened eye,     While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!  [Illustration]      My love, she sleeps! O, may her sleep,     As it is lasting, so be deep!     Soft may the worms about her creep!     Far in the forest, dim and old,     For her may some tall vault unfold--     Some vault that oft hath flung its black     And wingèd panels fluttering back     Triumphant o'er the crested palls     Of her grand family funerals      Some sepulchre remote, alone,     Against whose portal she had thrown,     In childhood many an idle stone      Some tomb from out whose sounding door     She ne'er shall force an echo more,     Thrilling to think, poor child of sin,     It was the dead who groaned within                            E  A        __       Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king      Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,     Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!      The palm and may make country houses gay,     Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,     And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay,       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!      The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,     Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,     In every street, these tunes our ears do greet,       Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!           Spring! the sweet Spring!                                          T        _   _  (  -------- --,   'S )       Oh! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North,       With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?     And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?       And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye tread?      Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,       And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod      For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,       Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God   [Illustration]      It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,       That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine,     And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced hair,       And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine       Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,       The General rode along us to form us to the fight,     When a murmuring sound broke out, and swell'd into a shout       Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right       And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,       The cry of battle rises along their charging line!     For God! for the Cause! for the Church, for the Laws!       For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!      The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,       His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall      They are bursting on our flanks  Grasp your pikes, close your ranks,       For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall       They are here! They rush on! We are broken! We are gone!       Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast      O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!       Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last       Stout Skippon hath a wound  the centre hath given ground:       Hark! hark!--What means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?     Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, boys        Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here       Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,       Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,     Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,       And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes       Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide       Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar:     And he--he turns, he flies:--shame on those cruel eyes       That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war       Ho! comrades, scour the plain  and, ere ye strip the slain,       First give another stab to make your search secure,     Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,       The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor       Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were           gay and bold,       When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day      And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,       Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey       Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,       And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades,     Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths,       Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?      Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown,       With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the Pope      There is woe in Oxford Halls  there is wail in Durham's Stalls:       The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope       And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,       And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword      And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear       What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word                                                            __       O listen, listen, ladies gay!       No haughty feat of arms I tell      Soft is the note, and sad the lay,       That mourns the lovely Rosabelle       'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!       And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!     Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,       Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day       'The blackening wave is edged with white        To inch[3] and rock the sea-mews fly      The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,       Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh       'Last night the gifted Seer did view       A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay      Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch        Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?'--      ''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir       To-night at Roslin leads the ball,     But that my ladye-mother there       Sits lonely in her castle-hall       ''Tis not because the ring they ride,       And Lindesay at the ring rides well,     But that my sire the wine will chide,       If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle '--      O'er Roslin all that dreary night,       A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam      'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,       And redder than the bright moonbeam       It glared on Roslin's castled rock,       It ruddied all the copse-wood glen      'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,       And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden       Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,       Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,     Each Baron, for a sable shroud,       Sheathed in his iron panoply       Seem'd all on fire within, around,       Deep sacristy and altar's pale      Shone every pillar foliage-bound,       And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail       Blazed battlement and pinnet high,       Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--     So still they blaze, when fate is nigh       The lordly line of high St  Clair       There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold       Lie buried within that proud chapelle      Each one the holy vault doth hold--       But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!      And each St  Clair was buried there,       With candle, with book, and with knell      But the sea-caves rung, and the wild wings sung,       The dirge of lovely Rosabelle!                                    W     [3] _Inch _ isle      _     _        I      It is an ancient Mariner,     And he stoppeth one of three      'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,     Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?      The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide,     And I am next of kin      The guests are met, the feast is set:     May'st hear the merry din '      He holds him with his skinny hand,     'There was a ship,' quoth he      'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'     Eftsoons his hand dropt he       He holds him with his glittering eye--     The Wedding-Guest stood still,     And listens like a three years' child:     The Mariner hath his will       The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:     He cannot choose but hear      And thus spake on that ancient man,     The bright-eyed Mariner:      'The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd,     Merrily did we drop     Below the kirk, below the hill,     Below the light-house top       'The Sun came up upon the left,     Out of the sea came he!     And he shone bright, and on the right     Went down into the sea       'Higher and higher every day     Till over the mast at noon--'     The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast     For he heard the loud bassoon       The Bride hath paced into the hall,     Red as a rose is she      Nodding their heads before her goes     The merry minstrelsy       The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,     Yet he cannot choose but hear      And thus spake on that ancient man,     The bright-eyed Mariner:      'And now the storm-blast came, and he     Was tyrannous and strong:     He struck with his o'ertaking wings,     And chased us south along       'With sloping masts and dipping prow,     As who pursued with yell and blow     Still treads the shadow of his foe,     And forward bends his head,     The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,     And southward aye we fled       'And now there came both mist and snow,     And it grew wondrous cold:     And ice, mast high, came floating by,     As green as emerald       'And through the drifts the snowy clifts     Did send a dismal sheen:     Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--     The ice was all between       'The ice was here, the ice was there,     The ice was all around:     It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd,     Like noises in a swound!      'At length did cross an Albatross,     Thorough the fog it came      As if it had been a Christian soul     We hail'd it in God's name       'It ate the food it ne'er had eat,     And round and round it flew      The ice did split with a thunder-fit      The helmsman steer'd us through       'And a good south wind sprung up behind      The Albatross did follow,     And every day, for food or play,     Came to the mariners' hollo!      'In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,     It perch'd for vespers nine      Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,     Glimmer'd the white moon-shine '      'God save thee, ancient Mariner!     From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--     Why look'st thou so?'--'With my cross-bow     I shot the Albatross!'          'The Sun now rose upon the right:     Out of the sea came he,     Still hid in mist, and on the left     Went down into the sea       'And the good south wind still blew behind,     But no sweet bird did follow,     Nor any day for food or play     Came to the mariners' hollo!      'And I had done a hellish thing,     And it would work 'em woe:     For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird     That made the breeze to blow      Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,     That made the breeze to blow!      'Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,     The glorious Sun uprist:     Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird     That brought the fog and mist      'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,     That bring the fog and mist       'The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,     The furrow stream'd off free      We were the first that ever burst     Into that silent sea       'Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down     'Twas sad as sad could be      And we did speak only to break     The silence of the sea!      'All in a hot and copper sky,     The bloody Sun, at noon,     Right up above the mast did stand,     No bigger than the Moon       'Day after day, day after day,     We struck, nor breath nor motion      As idle as a painted ship     Upon a painted ocean       'Water, water, everywhere,     And all the boards did shrink      Water, water, everywhere,     Nor any drop to drink       'The very deep did rot: O Christ!     That ever this should be!     Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs     Upon the slimy sea       'About, about, in reel and rout     The death-fires danced at night      The water, like a witch's oils,     Burnt green and blue, and white       'And some in dreams assured were     Of the spirit that plagued us so      Nine fathom deep he had followed us     From the land of mist and snow       'And every tongue, through utter drought,     Was wither'd at the root      We could not speak, no more than if     We had been choked with soot       'Ah! well a-day! what evil looks     Had I from old and young!     Instead of the Cross, the Albatross     About my neck was hung '          'There pass'd a weary time  Each throat     Was parch'd, and glazed each eye      A weary time! A weary time!     How glazed each weary eye!     When looking westward, I beheld     A something in the sky       'At first it seem'd a little speck,     And then it seem'd a mist      It moved and moved, and took at last     A certain shape, I wist       'A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!     And still it near'd and near'd:     As if it dodged a water-sprite,     It plunged and tack'd and veered   [Illustration:     ]      'With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,     We could nor laugh nor wail      Through utter drought all dumb we stood!     I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,     And cried, "A sail! a sail!"  [Illustration]      'With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,     Agape they heard me call:     Gramercy! they for joy did grin,     And all at once their breath drew in,     As they were drinking all       'See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!     Hither to work us weal      Without a breeze, without a tide,     She steadies with upright keel!      'The western wave was all a-flame,     The day was well-nigh done!     Almost upon the western wave     Rested the broad bright Sun      When that strange shape drove suddenly     Betwixt us and the Sun       'And straight the Sun was fleck'd with bars,     (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)     As if through a dungeon-grate he peered,     With broad and burning face       'Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)     How fast she nears and nears!     Are those _her_ sails that glance in the Sun,     Like restless gossameres?      'Are those _her_ ribs through which the Sun     Did peer, as through a grate?     And is that Woman all her crew?     Is that a Death? and are there two?     Is Death that woman's mate?      'Her lips were red, her looks were free,     Her locks were yellow as gold:     Her skin was as white as leprosy,     The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,     Who thicks man's blood with cold       'The naked hulk alongside came,     And the twain were casting dice      "The game is done! I've won, I've won!"     Quoth she, and whistles thrice       'The Sun's rim dips  the stars rush out      At one stride comes the dark      With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea     Off shot the spectre-bark       'We listen'd and look'd sideways up!     Fear at my heart, as at a cup,     My life-blood seem'd to sip!     The stars were dim, and thick the night,     The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white   [Illustration]      From the sails the dew did drip--     Till clomb above the eastern bar     The horned Moon, with one bright star     Within the nether tip       'One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon,     Too quick for groan or sigh,     Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang,     And cursed me with his eye       'Four times fifty living men,     (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)     With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,     They dropped down one by one       'The souls did from their bodies fly,--     They fled to bliss or woe!     And every soul, it pass'd me by,     Like the whizz of my cross-bow!'          'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!     I fear thy skinny hand!     And thou art long, and lank, and brown     As is the ribbed sea-sand       'I fear thee and thy glittering eye,     And thy skinny hand, so brown '--     'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!     This body dropt not down       'Alone, alone, all all alone,     Alone on a wide, wide sea!     And never a saint took pity on     My soul in agony       'The many men, so beautiful!     And they all dead did lie:     And a thousand thousand slimy things     Lived on  and so did I       'I look'd upon the rotting sea,     And drew my eyes away      I look'd upon the rotting deck,     And there the dead men lay       'I look'd to Heaven, and tried to pray      But or ever a prayer had gusht,     A wicked whisper came, and made     My heart as dry as dust   [Illustration]      'I closed my lids, and kept them close,     And the balls like pulses beat      For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky     Lay like a load on my weary eye,     And the dead were at my feet       'The cold sweat melted from their limbs,     Nor rot nor reek did they:     The look with which they look'd on me     Had never pass'd away       'An orphan's curse would drag to Hell     A spirit from on high      But oh! more horrible than that     Is the curse in a dead man's eye!     Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,     And yet I could not die   [Illustration]      'The moving Moon went up the sky,     And nowhere did abide:     Softly she was going up,     And a star or two beside--     Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,     Like April hoar-frost spread      But where the ship's huge shadow lay,     The charmèd water burnt alway     A still and awful red       'Beyond the shadow of the ship,     I watched the water-snakes:     They moved in tracks of shining white,     And when they rear'd, the elfish light     Fell off in hoary flakes       'Within the shadow of the ship     I watched their rich attire:     Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,     They coil'd and swam  and every track     Was a flash of golden fire       'O happy living things! no tongue     Their beauty might declare:     A spring of love gush'd from my heart,     And I bless'd them unaware!     Sure my kind saint took pity on me,     And I bless'd them unaware!      'The self-same moment I could pray      And from my neck so free     The Albatross fell off, and sank     Like lead into the sea '    V      'Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,     Beloved from pole to pole!     To Mary Queen the praise be given!     She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,     That slid into my soul       'The silly buckets on the deck,     That had so long remain'd,     I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew      And when I awoke, it rained       'My lips were wet, my throat was cold,     My garments all were dank      Sure I had drunken in my dreams,     And still my body drank       'I moved, and could not feel my limbs:     I was so light--almost     I thought that I had died in sleep,     And was a blessed ghost       'And soon I heard a roaring wind:     It did not come anear      But with its sound it shook the sails,     That were so thin and sere       'The upper air burst into life!     And a hundred fire-flags sheen,     To and fro they were hurried about!     And to and fro, and in and out,     The wan stars danced between       'And the coming wind did roar more loud,     And the sails did sigh like sedge      And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud,     The Moon was at its edge       'The thick black cloud was cleft and still,     The Moon was at its side:     Like waters shot from some high crag,     The lightning fell with never a jag,     A river steep and wide       'The loud wind never reached the ship,     Yet now the ship moved on!     Beneath the lightning and the moon     The dead men gave a groan       'They groan'd, they stirred, they all uprose,     Nor spake, nor moved their eyes      It had been strange, even in a dream,     To have seen those dead men rise       'The helmsman steered, the ship moved on,     Yet never a breeze up blew      The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,     Where they were wont to do      They raised their limbs like lifeless tools--     We were a ghastly crew       'The body of my brother's son     Stood by me, knee to knee:     The body and I pull'd at one rope,     But he said nought to me '  [Illustration]      'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'     'Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!     'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,     Which to their corses came again,     But a troop of spirits blest:     For when it dawn'd--they dropp'd their arms,     And cluster'd round the mast      Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,     And from their bodies passed       'Around, around, flew each sweet sound,     Then darted to the Sun      Slowly the sounds came back again,     Now mixed, now one by one       'Sometimes a-dropping from the sky     I heard the sky-lark sing      Sometimes all little birds that are,     How they seem'd to fill the sea and air     With their sweet jargoning!      'And now 'twas like all instruments,     Now like a lonely flute      And now it is an angel's song,     That makes the heavens be mute       'It ceased  yet still the sails made on     A pleasant noise till noon,     A noise like of a hidden brook     In the leafy month of June,     That to the sleeping woods all night     Singeth a quiet tune       'Till noon we quietly sailed on,     Yet never a breeze did breathe:     Slowly and smoothly went the ship,     Moved onward from beneath         Under the keel nine fathom deep,     From the land of mist and snow,     The spirit slid: and it was he     That made the ship to go      The sails at noon left off their tune     And the ship stood still also   [Illustration]      'The Sun, right up above the mast,     Had fixed her to the ocean      But in a minute she 'gan stir,     With a short uneasy motion--     Backwards and forwards half her length     With a short uneasy motion       'Then like a pawing horse let go,     She made a sudden bound:     It flung the blood into my head,     And I fell down in a swound       'How long in that same fit I lay,     I have not to declare      But ere my living life returned,     I heard, and in my soul discerned     Two voices in the air       '"Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man?     By Him who died on cross,     With his cruel bow he laid full low     The harmless Albatross   [Illustration]      '"The spirit who bideth by himself     In the land of mist and snow,     He loved the bird that loved the man     Who shot him with his bow "      'The other was a softer voice,     As soft as honey-dew      Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,     And penance more will do "      _First Voice_      '"But tell me, tell me! speak again,     Thy soft response renewing--     What makes that ship drive on so fast?     What is the Ocean doing?"  _Second Voice_      '"Still as a slave before his lord,     The Ocean hath no blast      His great bright eye most silently     Up to the Moon is cast--      '"If he may know which way to go      For she guides him smooth or grim      See, brother, see! how graciously     She looketh down on him "  _First Voice_      '"But why drives on that ship so fast,     Without or wave or wind?"  _Second Voice_      '"The air is cut away before,     And closes from behind       '"Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!     Or we shall be belated     For slow and slow that ship will go,     When the Mariner's trance is abated "      'I woke, and we were sailing on     As in a gentle weather:     'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high      The dead men stood together       'All stood together on the deck,     For a charnel-dungeon fitter:     All fixed on me their stony eyes,     That in the Moon did glitter       'The pang, the curse, with which they died,     Had never passed away:     I could not draw my eyes from theirs,     Nor turn them up to pray       'And now this spell was snapt: once more     I view'd the ocean green,     And look'd far forth, yet little saw     Of what had else been seen--      'Like one that on a lonesome road     Doth walk in fear and dread,     And having once turned round walks on,     And turns no more his head      Because he knows, a frightful fiend     Doth close behind him tread       'But soon there breathed a wind on me     Nor sound nor motion made:     Its path was not upon the sea,     In ripple or in shade       'It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek     Like a meadow-gale of spring--     It mingled strangely with my fears,     Yet it felt like a welcoming       'Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,     Yet she sail'd softly too:     Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--     On me alone it blew       'Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed     The light-house top I see?     Is this the hill? is this the kirk?     Is this mine own countree?        'We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,     And I with sobs did pray--     "O let me be awake, my God!     Or let me sleep alway "      'The harbour bay was clear as glass,     So smoothly it was strewn!     And on the bay the moonlight lay,     And the shadow of the moon       'The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,     That stands above the rock:     The moonlight steeped in silentness,     The steady weathercock       'And the bay was white with silent light     Till, rising from the same,     Full many shapes, that shadows were,     In crimson colours came       'A little distance from the prow     Those crimson shadows were:     I turned my eyes upon the deck--     Oh, Christ! what saw I there!      'Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,     And by the holy rood!     A man all light, a seraph-man,     On every corse there stood       'This seraph-band, each waved his hand,     It was a heavenly sight!     They stood as signals to the land,     Each one a lovely light       'This seraph-band, each waved his hand,     No voice did they impart--     No voice  but oh! the silence sank     Like music on my heart       'But soon I heard the dash of oars,     I heard the Pilot's cheer      My head was turn'd perforce away,     And I saw a boat appear       'The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy,     I heard them coming fast:     Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy     The dead men could not blast       'I saw a third--I heard his voice:     It is the Hermit good!     He singeth loud his godly hymns     That he makes in the wood      He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away     The Albatross's blood '          'This Hermit good lives in that wood     Which slopes down to the sea      How loudly his sweet voice he rears!     He loves to talk with marineres     That come from a far countree       'He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve--     He hath a cushion plump:     It is the moss that wholly hides     The rotted old oak stump       'The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk,     "Why, this is strange, I trow!     Where are those lights so many and fair,     That signal made but now?"      '"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said--     "And they answer'd not our cheer!     The planks look warp'd! and see those sails,     How thin they are and sere!     I never saw aught like to them,     Unless perchance it were      '"Brown skeletons of leaves that lag     My forest-brook along      When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,     And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,     That eats the she-wolf's young "      '"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look"--     (The Pilot made reply)     "I am a-fear'd"--"Push on, push on!"     Said the Hermit cheerily       'The boat came closer to the ship,     But I nor spake nor stirred      The boat came close beneath the ship,     And straight a sound was heard       'Under the water it rumbled on,     Still louder and more dread:     It reach'd the ship, it split the bay:     The ship went down like lead       'Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound,     Which sky and ocean smote,     Like one that hath been seven days drowned     My body lay afloat      But swift as dreams, myself I found     Within the Pilot's boat       'Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,     The boat spun round and round      And all was still, save that the hill     Was telling of the sound       'I moved my lips--the Pilot shriek'd     And fell down in a fit      The holy Hermit raised his eyes,     And prayed where he did sit       'I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,     Who now doth crazy go,     Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while     His eyes went to and fro      "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see     The Devil knows how to row '  [Illustration]      'And now, all in my own countree,     I stood on the firm land!     The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,     And scarcely he could stand       '"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"     The Hermit crossed his brow      "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say--     What manner of man art thou?"      'Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched     With a woful agony,     Which forced me to begin my tale      And then it left me free       'Since then, at an uncertain hour,     That agony returns      And till my ghastly tale is told,     This heart within me burns       'I pass, like night, from land to land      I have strange power of speech      The moment that his face I see,     I know the man that must hear me:     To him my tale I teach       'What loud uproar bursts from that door!     The wedding-guests are there:     But in the garden-bower the bride     And bride-maids singing are:     And hark the little vesper bell,     Which biddeth me to prayer!      'O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been     Alone on a wide, wide sea:     So lonely 'twas, that God himself     Scarce seemèd there to be       'O sweeter than the marriage-feast,     'Tis sweeter far to me,     To walk together to the kirk     With a goodly company!--      'To walk together to the kirk,     And all together pray,     While each to his great Father bends,     Old men, and babes, and loving friends,     And youths and maidens gay!      'Farewell, farewell! but this I tell     To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!     He prayeth well, who loveth well     Both man and bird and beast       'He prayeth best, who loveth best     All things both great and small      For the dear God who loveth us,     He made and loveth all '      The Mariner, whose eye is bright,     Whose beard with age is hoar,     Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest     Turned from the bridegroom's door       He went like one that hath been stunned,     And is of sense forlorn:     A sadder and a wiser man     He rose the morrow morn                           S  T        _  _   I      In the greenest of our valleys,       By good angels tenanted,     Once a fair and stately palace,       Radiant palace, reared its head      In the monarch Thought's dominion,       It stood there      Never seraph spread a pinion       Over fabric half so fair!         Banners--yellow, glorious, golden--       On its roof did float and flow     (This, all this, was in the olden       Time, long ago)      And every gentle air that dallied,       In that sweet day,     Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,       A wingèd odour went away          Wanderers in that happy valley,       Through two luminous windows saw     Spirits moving musically,       To a lute's well-tunèd law,     Round about a throne where, sitting       (Porphyrogene!)     In state his glory well befitting,       The ruler of the realm was seen          And all with pearl and ruby glowing       Was the fair palace-door,     Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,       And sparkling evermore,     A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty       Was but to sing,     In voices of surpassing beauty,       The wit and wisdom of their king    V      But evil things, in robes of sorrow,       Assailed the monarch's high estate      (Ah, let us mourn!--for never morrow       Shall dawn upon him desolate )     And round about his home the glory       That blushed and bloomed,     Is but a dim-remembered story       Of the old time entombed   [Illustration]         And travellers now within that valley,       Through the red-litten windows see     Vast forms, that move fantastically       To a discordant melody,     While, like a ghastly rapid river,       Through the pale door     A hideous throng rush out for ever       And laugh--but smile no more                                E  A        _ _              'Ruin seize thee, ruthless King!           Confusion on thy banners wait,         Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing           They mock the air with idle state      Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,     Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail     To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,     From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'     --Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride       Of the first Edward scatter'd wild dismay,     As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side       He wound with toilsome march his long array      Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:     'To arms!' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering lance         On a rock, whose haughty brow     Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,       Robed in the sable garb of woe,     With haggard eyes the Poet stood      (Loose his beard and hoary hair     Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)       And with a Master's hand and Prophet's fire     Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre      'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert cave       Sigh's to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!     O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,       Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe      Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,     To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay,          'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,       That hush'd the stormy main:     Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:       Mountains, ye mourn in vain       Modred, whose magic song     Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head        On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,     Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale:     Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail        The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by      Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,       Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes,     Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,       Ye died amidst your dying country's cries--     No more I weep  They do not sleep        On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,     I see them sit, they linger yet,       Avengers of their native land:     With me in dreadful harmony they join,     And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line       'Weave the warp, and weave the woof       The winding-sheet of Edward's race      Give ample room, and verge enough       The characters of hell to trace      Mark the year, and mark the night,     When Severn shall re-echo with affright     The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,     Shrieks of an agonising king!       She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,     That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,       From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs     The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait!     Amazement in his van, with Flight combined,     And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind       'Mighty victor, mighty Lord!       Low on his funeral couch he lies     No pitying heart, no eye, afford       A tear to grace his obsequies      Is the sable warriour fled?     Thy son is gone  He rests among the Dead      The Swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?     Gone to salute the rising Morn      Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,       While proudly riding o'er the azure realm     In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes        Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm      Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,       That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening-prey         'Fill high the sparkling bowl,     The rich repast prepare,       Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:     Close by the regal chair       Fell Thirst and Famine scowl       A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest      Heard ye the din of battle bray,       Lance to lance, and horse to horse?       Long years of havock urge their destined course,     And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way        Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,     With many a foul and midnight murther fed,       Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,     And spare the meek Usurper's holy head      Above, below, the rose of snow,       Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:     The bristled Boar in infant-gore       Wallows beneath the thorny shade      Now, Brothers, bending o'er the accursèd loom,     Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom       'Edward, lo! to sudden fate       (Weave we the woof  The thread is spun )     Half of thy heart we consecrate        (The web is wove  The work is done )     Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn     Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn:     In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,     They melt, they vanish from my eyes      But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height       Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?     Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,       Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul!     No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail:     All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia's issue, hail!        'Girt with many a baron bold     Sublime their starry fronts they rear        And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old     In bearded majesty, appear      In the midst a form divine!     Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line:     Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face     Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace      What strings symphonious tremble in the air,       What strains of vocal transport round her play      Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear        They breathe a soul to animate thy clay      Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings,     Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings       'The verse adorn again       Fierce War, and faithful Love,     And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest        In buskin'd measures move     Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,     With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast      A voice as of the Cherub-Choir       Gales from blooming Eden bear        And distant warblings lessen on my ear,     That lost in long futurity expire      Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud       Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?     To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,       And warms the nations with redoubled ray      Enough for me: with joy I see       The different doom our fates assign:     Be thine Despair and sceptred Care,       To triumph, and to die, are mine '     --He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height     Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night                                            T        __       Where shall the lover rest,       Whom the fates sever     From his true maiden's breast,       Parted for ever?     Where, through groves deep and high,       Sounds the far billow,     Where early violets die,       Under the willow         _Eleu loro_, &c  Soft shall be his pillow       There, through the summer day,       Cool streams are laving      There, while the tempests sway,       Scarce are boughs waving      There, thy rest shalt thou take,       Parted for ever,     Never again to wake,       Never, O never!        _Eleu loro_, &c  Never, O never!      Where shall the traitor rest,       He, the deceiver,     Who could win maiden's breast,       Ruin, and leave her?     In the lost battle,       Borne down by the flying,     Where mingles war's rattle       With groans of the dying         _Eleu loro_, &c  There shall he be lying       Her wing shall the eagle flap       O'er the false-hearted      His warm blood the wolf shall lap,       Ere life be parted      Shame and dishonour sit       By his grave ever      Blessing shall hallow it,--       Never, O never!        _Eleu loro_, &c  Never, O never!                           W        _ _       O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde?       O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope?     How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie,       On Hairibee to hang him up?      Had Willie had but twenty men,       But twenty men as stout as he,     Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,       Wi' eight score in his cumpanie       They band his legs beneath the steed,       They tied his hands behind his back      They guarded him, fivesome on each side,       And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack       They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,       And also thro' the Carlisle sands      They brought him on to Carlisle castell,       To be at my Lord Scroope's commands       'My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,       And whae will dare this deed avow?     Or answer by the Border law?       Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch?'      'Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver!       There's never a Scot shall set ye free:     Before ye cross my castle yate,       I trow ye shall take farewell o' me '      'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie:       'By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,' he said,     I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,       But I paid my lawing before I gaed '      Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,       In Branksome Ha' where that he lay,     That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,       Between the hours of night and day       He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,       He garr'd the red wine spring on hie--     'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said,       'But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be!      'O is my basnet a widow's curch?       Or my lance a wand of the willow tree?     Or my arm a lady's lilye hand,       That an English lord should lightly me!      'And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,       Against the truce of Border tide?     And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch       Is Keeper here on the Scottish side?      'And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie,       Withouten either dread or fear?     And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch       Can back a steed, or shake a spear?      'O were there war between the lands,       As well I wot that there is none,     I would slight Carlisle castell high,       Tho' it were builded of marble stone       'I would set that castell in a low,       And sloken it with English blood!     There's nevir a man in Cumberland       Should ken where Carlisle castell stood       'But since nae war's between the lands,       And there is peace, and peace should be      I'll neither harm English lad or lass,       And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!'      He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld,       I trow they were of his ain name,     Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd       The laird of Stobs, I mean the same       He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld,       Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch      With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,       And gleuves of green, and feathers blue       There were five and five before them a',       Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright      And five and five came wi' Buccleuch,       Like warden's men, arrayed for fight       And five and five, like a mason gang,       That carried the ladders lang and hie      And five and five, like broken men        And so they reached the Woodhouselee       And as we cross'd the Bateable Land,       When to the English side we held,     The first o' men that we met wi',       Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde?      'Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?'       Quo' fause Sakelde  'come tell to me!'     'We go to hunt an English stag,       Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie       'Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?'       Quo' fause Sakelde  'come tell me true!     'We go to catch a rank reiver,       Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch '      'Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,       Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?'     'We gang to herry a corbie's nest,       That wons not far frae Woodhouselee '      'Where be ye gaun ye broken men?'       Quo' fause Sakelde  'come tell to me!'     Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,       And the never a word o' lear had he       'Why trespass ye on the English side?       Row-footed outlaws, stand!' quo' he      The nevir a word had Dickie to say,       Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie       Then on we held for Carlisle toun,       And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd      The water was great and meikle of spait,       But the niver a horse nor man we lost       And when we reach'd the Staneshaw-bank,       The wind was rising loud and hie      And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds,       For fear that they should stamp and nie       And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,       The wind began full loud to blaw      But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet,       When we came beneath the castle wa'       We crept on knees, and held our breath,       Till we placed the ladders against the wa'      And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell       To mount the first, before us a'   [Illustration]      He has ta'en the watchman by the throat,       He flung him down upon the lead--     'Had there not been peace between our lands,       Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!      'Now sound out, trumpets!' quo' Buccleuch        'Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!'     Then loud the warden's trumpet blew--       '_O wha dare meddle wi' me?_'      Then speedilie to work we gaed,       And raised the slogan ane and a',     And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead,       And so we wan to the castle ha'       They thought King James and a' his men       Had won the house wi' bow and spear      It was but twenty Scots and ten,       That put a thousand in sic a stear!      Wi' coulters, and wi' fore-hammers,       We garr'd the bars bang merrilie,     Until we cam to the inner prison,       Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie       And when we cam to the lower prison,       Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie--     'O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,       Upon the morn that thou's to die?'      'O I sleep saft, and I wake aft        It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me      Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,       And a' gude fellows that spier for me '      Then Red Rowan has hente him up,       The starkest man in Teviotdale--     'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,       Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell       'Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope!       My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!' he cried--     'I'll pay you for my lodging maill,       When first we meet on the Border side '      Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,       We bore him down the ladder lang      At every stride Red Rowan made,       I wot the Kinmont's airns played clang!      'O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie,       'I have ridden horse baith wild and wood      But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,       I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode       'And mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie,       'I've pricked a horse out oure the furs      But since the day I backed a steed,       I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!'      We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,       When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,     And a thousand men, in horse and foot,       Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along       Buccleuch has turned to Eden water,       Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim,     And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,       And safely swam them thro' the stream       He turned him on the other side,       And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he--     'If ye like na my visit in merry England,       In fair Scotland come visit me!'      All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,       He stood as still as rock of stane      He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,       When thro' the water they had gane       'He is either himsell a devil frae hell,       Or else his mother a witch maun be      I wadna have ridden that wan water       For a' the gowd in Christentie '                        _  _       All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,       The Sun himself must die,     Before this mortal shall assume       Its Immortality!     I saw a vision in my sleep,     That gave my spirit strength to sweep       Adown the gulph of Time!     I saw the last of human mould,     That shall Creation's death behold,       As Adam saw her prime!      The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,       The Earth with age was wan,     The skeletons of nations were       Around that lonely man!     Some had expired in fight,--the brands     Still rested in their bony hands        In plague and famine some!     Earth's cities had no sound nor tread      And ships were drifting with the dead       To shores where all was dumb!      Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood       With dauntless words and high,     That shook the sere leaves from the wood       As if a storm passed by,     Saying, 'We are twins in death, proud Sun!     Thy face is cold, thy race is run,       'Tis Mercy bids thee go      For thou ten thousand thousand years     Hast seen the tide of human tears,       That shall no longer flow       'What though beneath thee man put forth       His pomp, his pride, his skill      And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,       The vassals of his will --     Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,     Thou dim discrownèd king of day:       For all those trophied arts     And triumphs that beneath thee sprang     Heal'd not a passion or a pang       Entail'd on human hearts       'Go, let oblivion's curtain fall       Upon the stage of men,     Nor with thy rising beams recall       Life's tragedy again:     Its piteous pageants bring not back,     Nor waken flesh, upon the rack       Of pain anew to writhe      Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,     Or mown in battle by the sword,       Like grass beneath the scythe       'E'en I am weary in yon skies       To watch thy fading fire      Test of all sumless agonies,       Behold not me expire      My lips that speak thy dirge of death--     Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath       To see thou shalt not boast      The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,--     The majesty of Darkness shall       Receive my parting ghost!      'This spirit shall return to Him       That gave its heavenly spark      Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim       When thou thyself art dark!     No! it shall live again, and shine     In bliss unknown to beams of thine,       By Him recalled to breath,     Who captive led captivity,     Who robb'd the grave of Victory,--       And took the sting from Death!      Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up       On Nature's awful waste     To drink this last and bitter cup       Of grief that man shall taste--     Go, tell the night that hides thy face,     Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,       On Earth's sepulchral clod,     The darkening universe defy     To quench his Immortality,       Or shake his trust in God!'                         T        __  A           Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!     And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!     Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,     Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of     France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of           the waters,     Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters      As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,     For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy     Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,     Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre       Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,     We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array      With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,     And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears      There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land      And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:     And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,     And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood      And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,     To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre       The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,     And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest      He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye      He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high      Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,     Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our Lord the King!'     'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,     For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,     Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,     And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre '      Hurrah! the foes are moving  Hark to the mingled din,     Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin      The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,     With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne      Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,     Charge for the golden lilies, upon them with the lance      A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,     A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest      And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star,     Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre       Now, God be praised, the day is ours  Mayenne hath turned his rein      D'Aumale hath cried for quarter  The Flemish count is slain      Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale      The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and           cloven mail      And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,     'Remember St  Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man      But out spake gentle Henry, 'No Frenchman is my foe:     Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go '     Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war,     As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?      Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day      And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey      But we of the religion have borne us best in fight      And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white      Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,     The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine      Up with it high  unfurl it wide  that all the host may know     How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His           Church such woe      Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,     Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre       Ho! maidens of Vienna  Ho! matrons of Lucerne      Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return      Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,     That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls      Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright      Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night      For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,     And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave      Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are      And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre       The morning breaks like a pomegranate     In a shining crack of red, Ah, when to-morrow the dawn comes late     Whitening across the bed, It will find me watching at the marriage gate     And waiting while light is shed On him who is sleeping satiate,     With a sunk, abandoned head   And when the dawn comes creeping in,     Cautiously I shall raise Myself to watch the morning win     My first of days, As it shows him sleeping a sleep he got     Of me, as under my gaze, He grows distinct, and I see his hot     Face freed of the wavering blaze   Then I shall know which image of God     My man is made toward, And I shall know my bitter rod     Or my rich reward  And I shall know the stamp and worth     Of the coin I've accepted as mine, Shall see an image of heaven or of earth     On his minted metal shine   Yea and I long to see him sleep     In my power utterly, I long to know what I have to keep,     I long to see My love, that spinning coin, laid still     And plain at the side of me, For me to count--for I know he will     Greatly enrichen me   And then he will be mine, he will lie     In my power utterly, Opening his value plain to my eye     He will sleep of me  He will lie negligent, resign     His all to me, and I Shall watch the dawn light up for me     This sleeping wealth of mine   And I shall watch the wan light shine     On his sleep that is filled of me, On his brow where the wisps of fond hair twine     So truthfully, On his lips where the light breaths come and go     Naïve and winsomely, On his limbs that I shall weep to know     Lie under my mastery            I saw the midlands   Revolve through her hair  The fields of autumn   Stretching bare, And sheep on the pasture   Tossed back in a scare   And still as ever   The world went round, My mouth on her pulsing   Neck was found, And my breast to her beating   Breast was bound   But my heart at the centre   Of all, in a swound Was still as a pivot,   As all the ground On its prowling orbit   Shifted round   And still in my nostrils   The scent of her flesh, And still my wet mouth   Sought her afresh  And still one pulse   Through the world did thresh   And the world all whirling   Around in joy Like the dance of a dervish   Did destroy My sense--and my reason   Spun like a toy   But firm at the centre   My heart was found  Her own to my perfect   Heart-beat bound, Like a magnet's keeper   Closing the round           What large, dark hands are those at the window Lifted, grasping the golden light Which weaves its way through the creeper leaves           To my heart's delight?  Ah, only the leaves! But in the west, In the west I see a redness come Over the evening's burning breast--           --'Tis the wound of love goes home!    The woodbine creeps abroad   Calling low to her lover:     The sun-lit flirt who all the day     Has poised above her lips in play     And stolen kisses, shallow and gay     Of pollen, now has gone away     --She woos the moth with her sweet, low word,   And when above her his broad wings hover   Then her bright breast she will uncover   And yield her honey-drop to her lover     Into the yellow, evening glow   Saunters a man from the farm below,   Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed   Where hangs the swallow's marriage bed      The bird lies warm against the wall      She glances quick her startled eyes     Towards him, then she turns away     Her small head, making warm display     Of red upon the throat  His terrors sway     Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,     Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies     In one blue stoop from out the sties     Into the evening's empty hall   Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes Hide your quaint, unfading blushes, Still your quick tail, and lie as dead, Till the distance folds over his ominous tread   The rabbit presses back her ears, Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes And crouches low: then with wild spring Spurts from the terror of _his_ oncoming To be choked back, the wire ring Her frantic effort throttling:     Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!  Ah soon in his large, hard hands she dies, And swings all loose to the swing of his walk  Yet calm and kindly are his eyes And ready to open in brown surprise Should I not answer to his talk Or should he my tears surmise   I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair Watching the door open: he flashes bare His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes In a smile like triumph upon me  then careless-wise He flings the rabbit soft on the table board And comes towards me: ah, the uplifted sword Of his hand against my bosom, and oh, the broad Blade of his hand that raise my face to applaud His coming: he raises up my face to him And caresses my mouth with his fingers, which still smell grim Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare! I know not what fine wire is round my throat, I only know I let him finger there My pulse of life, letting him nose like a stoat Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood: And down his mouth comes to my mouth, and down His dark bright eyes descend like a fiery hood Upon my mind: his mouth meets mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Within him, die, and find death good          Under the long, dark boughs, like jewels red       In the hair of an Eastern girl Shine strings of crimson cherries, as if had bled       Blood-drops beneath each curl   Under the glistening cherries, with folded wings       Three dead birds lie: Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings       Stained with red dye   Under the haystack a girl stands laughing at me,       With cherries hung round her ears-- Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see       If she has any tears            I  Ah, you stack of white lilies, all white and gold, I am adrift as a sunbeam, and without form Or having, save I light on you to warm Your pallor into radiance, flush your cold  White beauty into incandescence: you Are not a stack of white lilies to-night, but a white And clustered star transfigured by me to-night, And lighting these ruddy leaves like a star dropped through  The slender bare arms of the branches, your tire-maidens Who lift swart arms to fend me off  but I come Like a wind of fire upon you, like to some Stray whitebeam who on you his fire unladens   And you are a glistening toadstool shining here Among the crumpled beech-leaves phosphorescent, My stack of white lilies burning incandescent Of me, a soft white star among the leaves, my dear      Is it with pain, my dear, that you shudder so? Is it because I have hurt you with pain, my dear?      Did I shiver?--Nay, truly I did not know--     A dewdrop may-be splashed on my face down here   Why even now you speak through close-shut teeth  I have been too much for you--Ah, I remember!      The ground is a little chilly underneath     The leaves--and, dear, you consume me all to an ember   You hold yourself all hard as if my kisses Hurt as I gave them--you put me away--      Ah never I put you away: yet each kiss hisses     Hot as a drop of fire wastes me away      I am ashamed, you wanted me not to-night-- Nay, it is always so, you sigh with me  Your radiance dims when I draw too near, and my free Fire enters your petals like death, you wilt dead white   Ah, I do know, and I am deep ashamed  You love me while I hover tenderly Like clinging sunbeams kissing you: but see When I close in fire upon you, and you are flamed  With the swiftest fire of my love, you are destroyed  'Tis a degradation deep to me, that my best Soul's whitest lightning which should bright attest God stepping down to earth in one white stride,  Means only to you a clogged, numb burden of flesh Heavy to bear, even heavy to uprear Again from earth, like lilies wilted and sere Flagged on the floor, that before stood up so fresh           And you remember, in the afternoon The sea and the sky went grey, as if there had sunk A flocculent dust on the floor of the world: the festoon Of the sky sagged dusty as spider cloth, And coldness clogged the sea, till it ceased to croon   A dank, sickening scent came up from the grime Of weed that blackened the shore, so that I recoiled Feeling the raw cold dun me: and all the time You leapt about on the slippery rocks, and threw The words that rang with a brassy, shallow chime   And all day long that raw and ancient cold Deadened me through, till the grey downs darkened to sleep  Then I longed for you with your mantle of love to fold Me over, and drive from out of my body the deep Cold that had sunk to my soul, and there kept hold   But still to me all evening long you were cold, And I was numb with a bitter, deathly ache  Till old days drew me back into their fold, And dim sheep crowded me warm with companionship, And old ghosts clustered me close, and sleep was cajoled   I slept till dawn at the window blew in like dust, Like the linty, raw-cold dust disturbed from the floor Of a disused room: a grey pale light like must That settled upon my face and hands till it seemed To flourish there, as pale mould blooms on a crust   Then I rose in fear, needing you fearfully, For I thought you were warm as a sudden jet of blood  I thought I could plunge in your spurting hotness, and be Clean of the cold and the must --With my hand on the latch I heard you in your sleep speak strangely to me   And I dared not enter, feeling suddenly dismayed  So I went and washed my deadened flesh in the sea And came back tingling clean, but worn and frayed With cold, like the shell of the moon: and strange it seems That my love has dawned in rose again, like the love of a maid         -   I  When shall I see the half moon sink again Behind the black sycamore at the end of the garden? When will the scent of the dim, white phlox Creep up the wall to me, and in at my open window?  Why is it, the long slow stroke of the midnight bell,     (Will it never finish the twelve?) Falls again and again on my heart with a heavy reproach?  The moon-mist is over the village, out of the mist speaks the bell, And all the little roofs of the village bow low, pitiful, beseeching, resigned:     Oh, little home, what is it I have not done well?  Ah home, suddenly I love you, As I hear the sharp clean trot of a pony down the road, Succeeding sharp little sounds dropping into the silence, Clear upon the long-drawn hoarseness of a train across the valley   The light has gone out from under my mother's door          That she should love me so,         She, so lonely, greying now,         And I leaving her,         Bent on my pursuits!      Love is the great Asker,     The sun and the rain do not ask the secret      Of the time when the grain struggles down in the dark      The moon walks her lonely way without anguish,     Because no loved one grieves over her departure      Forever, ever by my shoulder pitiful Love will linger, Crouching as little houses crouch under the mist when I turn  Forever, out of the mist the church lifts up her reproachful finger, Pointing my eyes in wretched defiance where love hides her face to mourn       Oh but the rain creeps down to wet the grain         That struggles alone in the dark,     And asking nothing, cheerfully steals back again!         The moon sets forth o' nights         To walk the lonely, dusky heights         Serenely, with steps unswerving          Pursued by no sigh of bereavement,         No tears of love unnerving         Her constant tread:     While ever at my side,         Frail and sad, with grey bowed head,         The beggar-woman, the yearning-eyed         Inexorable love goes lagging   The wild young heifer, glancing distraught, With a strange new knocking of life at her side     Runs seeking a loneliness  The little grain draws down the earth to hide  Nay, even the slumberous egg, as it labours under the shell,     Patiently to divide, and self-divide, Asks to be hidden, and wishes nothing to tell   But when I draw the scanty cloak of silence over my eyes, Piteous Love comes peering under the hood  Touches the clasp with trembling fingers, and tries To put her ear to the painful sob of my blood, While her tears soak through to my breast,       Where they burn and cauterise        The moon lies back and reddens    In the valley, a corncrake calls         Monotonously,   With a piteous, unalterable plaint, that deadens         My confident activity:   With a hoarse, insistent request that falls         Unweariedly, unweariedly,         Asking something more of me,             Yet more of me!            Do you remember How night after night swept level and low Overhead, at home, and had not one star, Nor one narrow gate for the moon to go     Forth to her field of November       And you remember, How towards the north a red blot on the sky Burns like a blotch of anxiety Over the forges, and small flames ply     Like ghosts the shadow of the ember       Those were the days When it was awful autumn to me, When only there glowed on the dark of the sky The red reflection of her agony,     My beloved smelting down in the blaze      Of death--my dearest Love who had borne, and was now leaving me  And I at the foot of her cross did suffer     My own gethsemane       So I came to you, And twice, after great kisses, I saw The rim of the moon divinely rise And strive to detach herself from the raw     Blackened edge of the skies       Strive to escape  With her whiteness revealing my sunken world Tall and loftily shadowed  But the moon Never magnolia-like unfurled     Her white, her lamp-like shape       For you told me no, And bade me not to ask for the dour Communion, offering--"a better thing " So I lay on your breast for an obscure hour     Feeling your fingers go      Like a rhythmic breeze Over my hair, and tracing my brows, Till I knew you not from a little wind: --I wonder now if God allows     Us only one moment his keys       If only then You could have unlocked the moon on the night, And I baptized myself in the light Of your love  we both have entered then the white     Pure passion, and never again       I wonder if only You had taken me then, how different Life would have been: should I have spent Myself in waste, and you have bent     Your pride, through being lonely?         The little river twittering in the twilight, The wan, wondering look of the pale sky,     This is almost bliss   And everything shut up and gone to sleep, All the troubles and anxieties and pain     Gone under the twilight   Only the twilight now, and the soft "Sh!" of the river     That will last for ever   And at last I know my love for you is here, I can see it all, it is whole like the twilight, It is large, so large, I could not see it before Because of the little lights and flickers and interruptions,     Troubles, anxieties and pains       You are the call and I am the answer,     You are the wish, and I the fulfilment,     You are the night, and I the day          What else--it is perfect enough,         It is perfectly complete,         You and I,         What more----? Strange, how we suffer in spite of this!        I felt the lurch and halt of her heart     Next my breast, where my own heart was beating  And I laughed to feel it plunge and bound, And strange in my blood-swept ears was the sound     Of the words I kept repeating, Repeating with tightened arms, and the hot blood's blindfold art   Her breath flew warm against my neck,     Warm as a flame in the close night air  And the sense of her clinging flesh was sweet Where her arms and my neck's blood-surge could meet      Holding her thus, did I care That the black night hid her from me, blotted out every speck?  I leaned me forward to find her lips,     And claim her utterly in a kiss, When the lightning flew across her face, And I saw her for the flaring space     Of a second, afraid of the clips Of my arms, inert with dread, wilted in fear of my kiss   A moment, like a wavering spark,     Her face lay there before my breast, Pale love lost in a snow of fear, And guarded by a glittering tear,     And lips apart with dumb cries  A moment, and she was taken again in the merciful dark   I heard the thunder, and felt the rain,     And my arms fell loose, and I was dumb  Almost I hated her, she was so good, Hated myself, and the place, and my blood,     Which burned with rage, as I bade her come Home, away home, ere the lightning floated forth again          When the autumn roses   Are heavy with dew, Before the mist discloses   The leaf's brown hue, You would, among the laughing hills   Of yesterday Walk innocent in the daffodils, Coiffing up your auburn hair In a puritan fillet, a chaste white snare To catch and keep me with you there   So far away   When from the autumn roses   Trickles the dew, When the blue mist uncloses   And the sun looks through, You from those startled hills   Come away, Out of the withering daffodils  Thoughtful, and half afraid, Plaiting a heavy, auburn braid And coiling it round the wise brows of a maid   Who was scared in her play   When in the autumn roses   Creeps a bee, And a trembling flower encloses   His ecstasy, You from your lonely walk   Turn away, And leaning to me like a flower on its stalk, Wait among the beeches For your late bee who beseeches To creep through your loosened hair till he reaches,   Your heart of dismay         Slowly the moon is rising out of the ruddy haze, Divesting herself of her golden shift, and so Emerging white and exquisite  and I in amaze See in the sky before me, a woman I did not know I loved, but there she goes and her beauty hurts my heart  I follow her down the night, begging her not to depart      A      High and smaller goes the moon, she is small and very far from me, Wistful and candid, watching me wistfully, and I see Trembling blue in her pallor a tear that surely I have seen before, A tear which I had hoped that even hell held not again in store      A     A tiny moon as white and small as a single jasmine flower Leans all alone above my window, on night's wintry bower, Liquid as lime-tree blossom, soft as brilliant water or rain She shines, the one white love of my youth, which all sin cannot stain       -   The train in running across the weald has fallen into a steadier stroke So even, it beats like silence, and sky and earth in one unbroke Embrace of darkness lie around, and crushed between them all the loose And littered lettering of leaves and hills and houses closed, and we can use The open book of landscape no more, for the covers of darkness have shut upon Its written pages, and sky and earth and all between are closed in one   And we are smothered between the darkness, we close our eyes and say "Hush!" we try To escape in sleep the terror of this immense deep darkness, and we lie Wrapped up for sleep  And then, dear God, from out of the twofold darkness, red As if from the womb the moon arises, as if the twin-walled darkness had bled In one great spasm of birth and given us this new, red moon-rise Which lies on the knees of the darkness bloody, and makes us hide our eyes   The train beats frantic in haste, and struggles away From this ruddy terror of birth that has slid down From out of the loins of night to flame our way With fear  but God, I am glad, so glad that I drown My terror with joy of confirmation, for now Lies God all red before me, and I am glad, As the Magi were when they saw the rosy brow Of the Infant bless their constant folly which had Brought them thither to God: for now I know That the Womb is a great red passion whence rises all The shapeliness that decks us here-below: Yea like the fire that boils within this ball Of earth, and quickens all herself with flowers, God burns within the stiffened clay of us  And every flash of thought that we and ours Send up to heaven, and every movement, does Fly like a spark from this God-fire of passion  And pain of birth, and joy of the begetting, And sweat of labour, and the meanest fashion Of fretting or of gladness, but the jetting Of a trail of the great fire against the sky Where we can see it, a jet from the innermost fire: And even in the watery shells that lie Alive within the cozy under-mire, A grain of this same fire I can descry   And then within the screaming birds that fly Across the lightning when the storm leaps higher  And then the swirling, flaming folk that try To come like fire-flames at their fierce desire, They are as earth's dread, spurting flames that ply Awhile and gush forth death and then expire  And though it be love's wet blue eyes that cry To hot love to relinquish its desire, Still in their depths I see the same red spark As rose to-night upon us from the dark         Now I am come again, you who have so desired My coming, why do you look away from me? Why does your cheek burn against me--have I inspired Such anger as sets your mouth unwontedly?  Ah, here I sit while you break the music beneath Your bow  for broken it is, and hurting to hear: Cease then from music--does anguish of absence bequeath Me only aloofness when I would draw near?         You, Helen, who see the stars As mistletoe berries burning in a black tree, You surely, seeing I am a bowl of kisses, Should put your mouth to mine and drink of me   Helen, you let my kisses steam Wasteful into the night's black nostrils  drink Me up I pray  oh you who are Night's Bacchante, How can you from my bowl of kisses shrink!        The last, silk-floating thought has gone from the dandelion stem, And the flesh of the stalk holds up for nothing a blank diadem   The night's flood-winds have lifted my last desire from me, And my hollow flesh stands up in the night abandonedly   As I stand on this hill, with the whitening cave of the city beyond, Helen, I am despoiled of my pride, and my soul turns fond:  Overhead the nightly heavens like an open, immense eye, Like a cat's distended pupil sparkles with sudden stars, As with thoughts that flash and crackle in uncouth malignancy They glitter at me, and I fear the fierce snapping of night's thought-stars   Beyond me, up the darkness, goes the gush of the lights of two towns, As the breath which rushes upwards from the nostrils of an immense Life crouched across the globe, ready, if need be, to pounce Across the space upon heaven's high hostile eminence   All round me, but far away, the night's twin consciousness roars With sounds that endlessly swell and sink like the storm of thought in the brain, Lifting and falling like slow breaths taken, pulsing like oars Immense that beat the blood of the night down its vein   The night is immense and awful, Helen, and I am insect small In the fur of this hill, clung on to the fur of shaggy, black heather  A palpitant speck in the fur of the night, and afraid of all, Seeing the world and the sky like creatures hostile together   And I in the fur of the world, and you a pale fleck from the sky, How we hate each other to-night, hate, you and I, As the world of activity hates the dream that goes on on high, As a man hates the dreaming woman he loves, but who will not reply      -         Is that the moon At the window so big and red? No one in the room, No one near the bed----?        Listen, her shoon Palpitating down the stair? --Or a beat of wings at the window there?        A moment ago She kissed me warm on the mouth, The very moon in the south Is warm with a bloody glow, The moon from far abysses Signalling those two kisses         And now the moon Goes slowly out of the west, And slowly back in my breast My kisses are sinking, soon       To leave me at rest         The trees rise tall and taller, lifted On a subtle rush of cool grey flame That issuing out of the dawn has sifted     The spirit from each leaf's frame   For the trailing, leisurely rapture of life Drifts dimly forward, easily hidden By bright leaves uttered aloud, and strife     Of shapes in the grey mist chidden   The grey, phosphorescent, pellucid advance Of the luminous purpose of God, shines out Where the lofty trees athwart stream chance     To shake flakes of its shadow about   The subtle, steady rush of the whole Grey foam-mist of advancing God, As He silently sweeps to His somewhere, his goal,     Is heard in the grass of the sod   Is heard in the windless whisper of leaves In the silent labours of men in the fields, In the downward dropping of flimsy sheaves     Of cloud the rain skies yield   In the tapping haste of a fallen leaf, In the flapping of red-roof smoke, and the small Foot-stepping tap of men beneath     These trees so huge and tall   For what can all sharp-rimmed substance but catch In a backward ripple, God's purpose, reveal For a moment His mighty direction, snatch     A spark beneath His wheel   Since God sweeps onward dim and vast, Creating the channelled vein of Man And Leaf for His passage, His shadow is cast     On all for us to scan   Ah listen, for Silence is not lonely: Imitate the magnificent trees That speak no word of their rapture, but only     Breathe largely the luminous breeze          A gang of labourers on the piled wet timber That shines blood-red beside the railway siding Seem to be making out of the blue of the morning Something faery and fine, the shuttles sliding,  The red-gold spools of their hands and faces shuttling Hither and thither across the morn's crystalline frame Of blue: trolls at the cave of ringing cerulean mining, And laughing with work, living their work like a game         I  =The Town=  Oh you stiff shapes, swift transformation seethes About you: only last night you were A Sodom smouldering in the dense, soiled air  To-day a thicket of sunshine with blue smoke-wreaths   To-morrow swimming in evening's vague, dim vapour Like a weeded city in shadow under the sea, Beneath an ocean of shimmering light you will be: Then a group of toadstools waiting the moon's white taper   And when I awake in the morning, after rain, To find the new houses a cluster of lilies glittering In scarlet, alive with the birds' bright twittering, I'll say your bond of ugliness is vain      =The Earth=  Oh Earth, you spinning clod of earth, And then you lamp, you lemon-coloured beauty  Oh Earth, you rotten apple rolling downward, Then brilliant Earth, from the burr of night in beauty As a jewel-brown horse-chestnut newly issued:-- You are all these, and strange, it is my duty To take you all, sordid or radiant tissued      =Men=  Oh labourers, oh shuttles across the blue frame of morning, You feet of the rainbow balancing the sky! Oh you who flash your arms like rockets to heaven, Who in lassitude lean as yachts on the sea-wind lie! You who in crowds are rhododendrons in blossom, Who stand alone in pride like lighted lamps  Who grappling down with work or hate or passion, Take strange lithe form of a beast that sweats and ramps: You who are twisted in grief like crumpled beech-leaves, Who curl in sleep like kittens, who kiss as a swarm Of clustered, vibrating bees  who fall to earth At last like a bean-pod: what are you, oh multiform?        We have bit no forbidden apple,     Eve and I, Yet the splashes of day and night Falling round us no longer dapple The same Eden with purple and white   This is our own still valley     Our Eden, our home, But day shows it vivid with feeling And the pallor of night does not tally With dark sleep that once covered its ceiling   My little red heifer, to-night I looked in her eyes,     --She will calve to-morrow: Last night when I went with the lantern, the sow was grabbing her litter With red, snarling jaws: and I heard the cries Of the new-born, and after that, the old owl, then the bats that flitter   And I woke to the sound of the wood-pigeons, and lay and listened,     Till I could borrow A few quick beats of a wood-pigeon's heart, and when I did rise The morning sun on the shaken iris glistened, And I saw that home, this valley, was wider than Paradise   I learned it all from my Eve     This warm, dumb wisdom  She's a finer instructress than years  She has taught my heart-strings to weave Through the web of all laughter and tears   And now I see the valley     Fleshed all like me With feelings that change and quiver: And all things seem to tally     With something in me, Something of which she's the giver      -   If she would come to me here,     Now the sunken swaths     Are glittering paths To the sun, and the swallows cut clear Into the low sun--if she came to me here!  If she would come to me now, Before the last mown harebells are dead, While that vetch clump yet burns red  Before all the bats have dropped from the bough Into the cool of night--if she came to me now!  The horses are untackled, the chattering machine Is still at last  If she would come, I would gather up the warm hay from The hill-brow, and lie in her lap till the green Sky ceased to quiver, and lost its tired sheen   I should like to drop On the hay, with my head on her knee And lie stone still, while she Breathed quiet above me--we could stop Till the stars came out to see   I should like to lie still As if I was dead--but feeling Her hand go stealing Over my face and my hair until This ache was shed      -   God shook thy roundness in His finger's cup, He sunk His hands in firmness down thy sides, And drew the circle of His grasp, O Man, Along thy limbs delighted, thine, His bride's   And so thou wert God-shapen: His finger Curved thy mouth for thee, and His strong shoulder Planted thee upright: art not proud to see In the curve of thine exquisite form the joy of the Moulder?  He took a handful of light and rolled a ball, Compressed it till its beam grew wondrous dark, Then gave thee thy dark eyes, O Man, that all He made had doorway to thee through that spark   God, lonely, put down His mouth in a kiss of creation, He kissed thee, O Man, in a passion of love, and left The vivid life of His love in thy mouth and thy nostrils  Keep then the kiss from the adultress' theft         Sister, tha knows while we was on the planks   Aside o' th' grave, while th' coffin wor lyin' yet On th' yaller clay, an' th' white flowers top of it   Tryin' to keep off 'n him a bit o' th' wet,  An' parson makin' haste, an' a' the black   Huddlin' close together a cause o' th' rain, Did t' 'appen ter notice a bit of a lass away back   By a head-stun, sobbin' an' sobbin' again?      --How should I be lookin' round       An' me standin' on the plank     Beside the open ground,       Where our Ted 'ud soon be sank?      Yi, an' 'im that young,       Snapped sudden out of all     His wickedness, among       Pals worse n'r ony name as you could call   Let be that  there's some o' th' bad as we   Like better nor all your good, an' 'e was one  --An' cos I liked him best, yi, bett'r nor thee,   I canna bide to think where he is gone   Ah know tha liked 'im bett'r nor me  But let   Me tell thee about this lass  When you had gone Ah stopped behind on t' pad i' th' drippin wet   An' watched what 'er 'ad on   Tha should ha' seed her slive up when we'd gone,   Tha should ha' seed her kneel an' look in At th' sloppy wet grave--an' 'er little neck shone   That white, an' 'er shook that much, I'd like to begin  Scraïghtin' my-sen as well  'En undid her black   Jacket at th' bosom, an' took from out of it Over a double 'andful of violets, all in a pack   Ravelled blue and white--warm, for a bit  O' th' smell come waftin' to me  'Er put 'er face   Right intil 'em and scraïghted out again, Then after a bit 'er dropped 'em down that place,   An' I come away, because o' the teemin' rain           I  Dunna thee tell me its his'n, mother,       Dunna thee, dunna thee  --Oh ay! he'll be comin' to tell thee his-sèn       Wench, wunna he?  Tha doesna mean to say to me, mother,       He's gone wi that-- --My gel, owt'll do for a man i' the dark,       Tha's got it flat   But 'er's old, mother, 'er's twenty year       Older nor him-- --Ay, an' yaller as a crowflower, an' yet i' the dark       Er'd do for Tim   Tha niver believes it, mother, does ter?       It's somebody's lies  --Ax him thy-sèn wench--a widder's lodger        It's no surprise      A widow of forty-five With a bitter, swarthy skin, To ha' 'ticed a lad o' twenty-five An' 'im to have been took in!  A widow of forty-five As has sludged like a horse all her life, Till 'er's tough as whit-leather, to slive Atween a lad an' 'is wife!  A widow of forty-five  A tough old otchel wi' long Witch teeth, an' 'er black hawk-eyes as I've Mistrusted all along!  An' me as 'as kep my-sen Shut like a daisy bud, Clean an' new an' nice, so's when He wed he'd ha'e summat good!  An' 'im as nice an' fresh As any man i' the force, To ha'e gone an' given his white young flesh To a woman that coarse!     You're stout to brave this snow, Miss Stainwright,     Are you makin' Brinsley way? --I'm off up th' line to Underwood     Wi' a dress as is wanted to-day   Oh are you goin' to Underwood?     'Appen then you've 'eered? --What's that as 'appen I've 'eered-on, Missis,     Speak up, you nedna be feared   Why, your young man an' Widow Naylor,     Her as he lodges wi', They say he's got her wi' childt  but there,     It's nothing to do wi' me   Though if it's true they'll turn him out     O' th' p'lice force, without fail  An' if it's not true, I'd back my life     They'll listen to _her_ tale   Well, I'm believin' no tale, Missis,     I'm seein' for my-sen  An' when I know for sure, Missis,     I'll talk _then_      Nay robin red-breast, tha nedna     Sit noddin' thy head at me  My breast's as red as thine, I reckon,     Flayed red, if tha could but see   Nay, you blessed pee-whips,     You nedna screet at me! I'm screetin' my-sen, but are-na goin'     To let iv'rybody see   Tha _art_ smock-ravelled, bunny,     Larropin' neck an' crop I' th' snow: but I's warrant thee, bunny,     _I'm_ further ower th' top    V  Now sithee theer at th' railroad crossin' Warmin' his-sen at the stool o' fire Under the tank as fills the ingines, If there isn't my dearly-beloved liar!  My constable wi' 'is buttoned breast As stout as the truth, my sirs!--An' 'is face As bold as a robin! It's much he cares For this nice old shame and disgrace   Oh but he drops his flag when 'e sees me, Yes, an' 'is face goes white     oh yes Tha can stare at me wi' thy fierce blue eyes, But tha doesna stare me out, I guess!     Whativer brings thee out so far     In a' this depth o' snow? --I'm takin' 'ome a weddin' dress     If tha maun know   Why, is there a weddin' at Underwood,     As tha ne'd trudge up here? --It's Widow Naylor's weddin'-dress,     An' 'er's wantin it, I hear   _'Er_ doesna want no weddin-dress         What--but what dost mean? --Doesn't ter know what I mean, Tim?--Yi,     Tha must' a' been hard to wean!  Tha'rt a good-un at suckin-in yet, Timmy      But tell me, isn't it true As 'er'll be wantin' _my_ weddin' dress     In a week or two?  Tha's no occasions ter ha'e me on     Lizzie--what's done is done! --_Done_, I should think so--Done! But might     I ask when tha begun?  It's thee as 'as done it as much as me,     Lizzie, I tell thee that  --"Me gotten a childt to thy landlady--!"     Tha's gotten thy answer pat,  As tha allers hast--but let me tell thee     Hasna ter sent me whoam, when I Was a'most burstin' mad o' my-sen     An' walkin' in agony   After thy kisses, Lizzie, after     Tha's lain right up to me Lizzie, an' melted Into me, melted into me, Lizzie,     Till I was verily swelted   An' if my landlady seed me like it,     An' if 'er clawkin', tiger's eyes Went through me just as the light went out     Is it any cause for surprise?  No cause for surprise at all, my lad,     After lickin' and snuffin' at me, tha could Turn thy mouth on a woman like her--     Did ter find her good?  Ay, I did, but afterwards     I should like to ha' killed her! --Afterwards!--an' after how long     Wor it tha'd liked to 'a killed her?  Say no more, Liz, dunna thee,     I might lose my-sen  --I'll only say good-bye to thee, Timothy,     An' gi'e her thee back again   I'll ta'e thy word 'Good-bye,' Liz,     But I shonna marry her, I shonna for nobody --It is     Very nice on you, Sir   The childt maun ta'e its luck, it maun,     An' she maun ta'e _her_ luck, For I tell ye I shonna marry her--     What her's got, her took   That's spoken like a man, Timmy,     That's spoken like a man     "He up an' fired off his pistol     An' then away he ran "  I damn well shanna marry 'er,     So chew at it no more, Or I'll chuck the flamin' lot of you--     --You nedn't have swore      That's his collar round the candle-stick An' that's the dark blue tie I bought 'im, An' these is the woman's kids he's so fond on, An' 'ere comes the cat that caught 'im   I dunno where his eyes was--a gret Round-shouldered hag! My sirs, to think Of him stoopin' to her! You'd wonder he could Throw hisself in that sink   I expect you know who I am, Mrs Naylor!     --Who yer are?--yis, you're Lizzie Stainwright  'An 'appen you might guess what I've come for?     --'Appen I mightn't, 'appen I might   You knowed as I was courtin' Tim Merfin      --Yis, I knowed 'e wor courtin' thee  An' yet you've been carryin' on wi' him      --Ay, an' 'im wi' me   Well, now you've got to pay for it,     --An' if I han, what's that to thee? For 'e isn't goin' to marry you      --Is it a toss-up 'twixt thee an' me?  It's no toss-up 'twixt thee an' me      --Then what art colleyfoglin' for? I'm not havin' your orts an' slarts      --Which on us said you wor?  I want you to know 'e's non _marryin'_ you      --Tha wants 'im thy-sen too bad  Though I'll see as 'e pays you, an' comes to the scratch      --Tha'rt for doin' a lot wi' th' lad      To think I should ha'e to haffle an' caffle     Wi' a woman, an' pay 'er a price For lettin' me marry the lad as I thought     To marry wi' cabs an' rice   But we'll go unbeknown to the registrar,     An' give _'er_ what money there is, For I won't be beholden to such as her     For anythink of his      Take off thy duty stripes, Tim,     An' come wi' me in here, Ta'e off thy p'lice-man's helmet     An' look me clear   I wish tha hadna done it, Tim,     I do, an' that I do! For whenever I look thee i' th' face, I s'll see     Her face too   I wish tha could wesh 'er off'n thee,     For I used to think that thy Face was the finest thing that iver     Met my eye       X  Twenty pound o' thy own tha hast, and fifty pound ha'e I, Thine shall go to pay the woman, an' wi' my bit we'll buy All as we shall want for furniture when tha leaves this place, An' we'll be married at th' registrar--now lift thy face   Lift thy face an' look at me, man, up an' look at me: Sorry I am for this business, an' sorry if I ha'e driven thee To such a thing: but it's a poor tale, that I'm bound to say, Before I can ta'e thee I've got a widow of forty-five to pay   Dunnat thee think but what I love thee--I love thee well, But 'deed an' I wish as this tale o' thine wor niver my tale to tell  Deed an' I wish as I could stood at the altar wi' thee an' been proud o' thee, That I could ha' been first woman to thee, as thou'rt first man to me   But we maun ma'e the best on't--I'll rear thy childt if 'er'll yield it to me, An' then wi' that twenty pound we gi'e 'er I s'd think 'er wunna be So very much worser off than 'er wor before--An' now look up An' answer me--for I've said my say, an' there's no more sorrow to sup   Yi, tha'rt a man, tha'rt a fine big man, but niver a baby had eyes As sulky an' ormin' as thine  Hast owt to say otherwise From what I've arranged wi' thee? Eh man, what a stubborn jackass thou art, Kiss me then--there!--ne'er mind if I scraight--I wor fond o' thee, Sweetheart      A 'S    Somebody's knocking at the door     Mother, come down and see  --I's think it's nobbut a beggar,     Say, I'm busy   Its not a beggar, mother,--hark     How hard he knocks     --Eh, tha'rt a mard-'arsed kid,     'E'll gi'e thee socks!  Shout an' ax what 'e wants,     I canna come down  --'E says "Is it Arthur Holliday's?"     Say "Yes," tha clown   'E says, "Tell your mother as 'er mester's     Got hurt i' th' pit " What--oh my sirs, 'e never says that,     That's niver it   Come out o' the way an' let me see,     Eh, there's no peace! An' stop thy scraightin', childt,     Do shut thy face   "Your mester's 'ad an accident,     An' they're ta'ein 'im i' th' ambulance To Nottingham,"--Eh dear o' me     If 'e's not a man for mischance!  Wheers he hurt this time, lad?     --I dunna know, They on'y towd me it wor bad--     It would be so!  Eh, what a man!--an' that cobbly road,     They'll jolt him a'most to death, I'm sure he's in for some trouble     Nigh every time he takes breath   Out o' my way, childt--dear o' me, wheer     Have I put his clean stockings and shirt  Goodness knows if they'll be able     To take off his pit dirt   An' what a moan he'll make--there niver     Was such a man for a fuss If anything ailed him--at any rate     _I_ shan't have him to nuss   I do hope it's not very bad!     Eh, what a shame it seems As some should ha'e hardly a smite o' trouble     An' others has reams   It's a shame as 'e should be knocked about     Like this, I'm sure it is! He's had twenty accidents, if he's had one      Owt bad, an' it's his   There's one thing, we'll have peace for a bit,     Thank Heaven for a peaceful house  An' there's compensation, sin' it's accident,     An' club money--I nedn't grouse   An' a fork an' a spoon he'll want, an' what else      I s'll never catch that train-- What a trapse it is if a man gets hurt--     I s'd think he'll get right again           The snow is witherin' off'n th' gress     Love, should I tell thee summat? The snow is witherin' off'n th' gress An' a thick mist sucks at the clots o' snow, An' the moon above in a weddin' dress Goes fogged an' slow--     Love, should I tell thee summat?  Tha's been snowed up i' this cottage wi' me,     Nay, I'm tellin' thee summat -- Tha's bin snowed up i' this cottage wi' me While th' clocks has a' run down an' stopped An' the short days withering silently Unbeknown have dropped      --Yea, but I'm tellin' thee summat   How many days dost think has gone?--     Now I'm tellin' thee summat  How many days dost think has gone? How many days has the candle-light shone On us as tha got more white an' wan? --Seven days, or none--     Am I not tellin' thee summat?  Tha come to bid farewell to me--     Tha'rt frit o' summat  To kiss me and shed a tear wi' me, Then off and away wi' the weddin' ring For the girl who was grander, and better than me For marrying--     Tha'rt frit o' summat?  I durstna kiss thee tha trembles so,     Tha'rt frit o' summat  Tha arena very flig to go, 'Appen the mist from the thawin' snow Daunts thee--it isna for love, I know, That tha'rt loath to go      --Dear o' me, say summat   Maun tha cling to the wa' as tha goes,     So bad as that? Tha'lt niver get into thy weddin' clothes At that rate--eh, theer goes thy hat  Ne'er mind, good-bye lad, now I lose My joy, God knows,     --An' worse nor that   The road goes under the apple tree      Look, for I'm showin' thee summat  An' if it worn't for the mist, tha'd see The great black wood on all sides o' thee Wi' the little pads going cunningly To ravel thee      So listen, I'm tellin' thee summat   When tha comes to the beechen avenue,     I'm warnin' thee o' summat  Mind tha shall keep inwards, a few Steps to the right, for the gravel pits Are steep an' deep wi' watter, an' you Are scarce o' your wits      Remember, I've warned the o' summat   An' mind when crossin' the planken bridge,     Again I warn ye o' summat  Ye slip not on the slippery ridge Of the thawin' snow, or it'll be A long put-back to your gran' marridge, I'm tellin' ye      Nay, are ter scared o' summat?  In kep the thick black curtains drawn,     Am I not tellin' thee summat? Against the knockin' of sevenfold dawn, An' red-tipped candles from morn to morn Have dipped an' danced upon thy brawn Till thou art worn--     Oh, I have cost thee summat   Look in the mirror an' see thy-sen,     --What, I am showin' thee summat  Wasted an' wan tha sees thy-sen, An' thy hand that holds the mirror shakes Till tha drops the glass and tha shudders when Thy luck breaks      Sure, tha'rt afraid o' summat   Frail thou art, my saucy man,     --Listen, I'm tellin' thee summat  Tottering and tired thou art, my man, Tha came to say good-bye to me, An' tha's done it so well, that now I can Part wi' thee      --Master, I'm givin' thee summat          I  =A Snowy Day in School=  All the slow school hours, round the irregular hum of the class, Have pressed immeasurable spaces of hoarse silence Muffling my mind, as snow muffles the sounds that pass Down the soiled street  We have pattered the lessons ceaselessly--  But the faces of the boys, in the brooding, yellow light Have shone for me like a crowded constellation of stars, Like full-blown flowers dimly shaking at the night, Like floating froth on an ebbing shore in the moon   Out of each star, dark, strange beams that disquiet: In the open depths of each flower, dark restless drops: Twin bubbles, shadow-full of mystery and challenge in the foam's whispering riot: --How can I answer the challenge of so many eyes!  The thick snow is crumpled on the roof, it plunges down Awfully  Must I call back those hundred eyes?--A voice Wakes from the hum, faltering about a noun-- My question! My God, I must break from this hoarse silence  That rustles beyond the stars to me --There, I have startled a hundred eyes, and I must look Them an answer back  It is more than I can bear   The snow descends as if the dull sky shook In flakes of shadow down  and through the gap Between the ruddy schools sweeps one black rook   The rough snowball in the playground stands huge and still With fair flakes settling down on it --Beyond, the town Is lost in the shadowed silence the skies distil   And all things are possessed by silence, and they can brood Wrapped up in the sky's dim space of hoarse silence Earnestly--and oh for me this class is a bitter rood      =The Best of School=    The blinds are drawn because of the sun,   And the boys and the room in a colourless gloom   Of under-water float: bright ripples run   Across the walls as the blinds are blown   To let the sunlight in  and I,   As I sit on the beach of the class alone,   Watch the boys in their summer blouses,   As they write, their round heads busily bowed:   And one after another rouses   And lifts his face and looks at me,   And my eyes meet his very quietly,   Then he turns again to his work, with glee     With glee he turns, with a little glad   Ecstasy of work he turns from me,   An ecstasy surely sweet to be had    And very sweet while the sunlight waves   In the fresh of the morning, it is to be   A teacher of these young boys, my slaves   Only as swallows are slaves to the eaves   They build upon, as mice are slaves   To the man who threshes and sows the sheaves                     Oh, sweet it is   To feel the lads' looks light on me,   Then back in a swift, bright flutter to work,   As birds who are stealing turn and flee     Touch after touch I feel on me   As their eyes glance at me for the grain   Of rigour they taste delightedly                         And all the class,   As tendrils reached out yearningly   Slowly rotate till they touch the tree   That they cleave unto, that they leap along   Up to their lives--so they to me     So do they cleave and cling to me,   So I lead them up, so do they twine   Me up, caress and clothe with free   Fine foliage of lives this life of mine    The lowest stem of this life of mine,   The old hard stem of my life   That bears aloft towards rarer skies   My top of life, that buds on high   Amid the high wind's enterprise    They all do clothe my ungrowing life   With a rich, a thrilled young clasp of life    A clutch of attachment, like parenthood,   Mounts up to my heart, and I find it good   And I lift my head upon the troubled tangled world, and though the pain Of living my life were doubled, I still have this to comfort and sustain, I have such swarming sense of lives at the base of me, such sense of lives Clustering upon me, reaching up, as each after the other strives To follow my life aloft to the fine wild air of life and the storm of thought, And though I scarcely see the boys, or know that they are there, distraught As I am with living my life in earnestness, still progressively and alone, Though they cling, forgotten the most part, not companions, scarcely known To me--yet still because of the sense of their closeness clinging densely to me, And slowly fingering up my stem and following all tinily The way that I have gone and now am leading, they are dear to me     They keep me assured, and when my soul feels lonely,   All mistrustful of thrusting its shoots where only   I alone am living, then it keeps   Me comforted to feel the warmth that creeps   Up dimly from their striving  it heartens my strife:   And when my heart is chill with loneliness,   Then comforts it the creeping tenderness   Of all the strays of life that climb my life      =Afternoon in School=      When will the bell ring, and end this weariness? How long have they tugged the leash, and strained apart My pack of unruly hounds: I cannot start Them again on a quarry of knowledge they hate to hunt, I can haul them and urge them no more  No more can I endure to bear the brunt Of the books that lie out on the desks: a full three score Of several insults of blotted page and scrawl Of slovenly work that they have offered me  I am sick, and tired more than any thrall Upon the woodstacks working weariedly                                   And shall I take The last dear fuel and heap it on my soul Till I rouse my will like a fire to consume Their dross of indifference, and burn the scroll Of their insults in punishment?--I will not! I will not waste myself to embers for them, Not all for them shall the fires of my life be hot, For myself a heap of ashes of weariness, till sleep Shall have raked the embers clear: I will keep Some of my strength for myself, for if I should sell It all for them, I should hate them--             --I will sit and wait for the bell                  'T is little I could care for pearls   Who own the ample sea  Or brooches, when the Emperor   With rubies pelteth me   Or gold, who am the Prince of Mines    Or diamonds, when I see A diadem to fit a dome   Continual crowning me               Superiority to fate   Is difficult to learn  'T is not conferred by any,   But possible to earn  A pittance at a time,   Until, to her surprise, The soul with strict economy   Subsists till Paradise             Hope is a subtle glutton    He feeds upon the fair  And yet, inspected closely,   What abstinence is there!  His is the halcyon table   That never seats but one, And whatsoever is consumed   The same amounts remain              I   Forbidden fruit a flavor has   That lawful orchards mocks  How luscious lies the pea within   The pod that Duty locks!      V          Heaven is what I cannot reach!   The apple on the tree, Provided it do hopeless hang,   That 'heaven' is, to me   The color on the cruising cloud,   The interdicted ground Behind the hill, the house behind, --   There Paradise is found!         A    A word is dead When it is said,   Some say  I say it just Begins to live   That day          To venerate the simple days   Which lead the seasons by, Needs but to remember   That from you or me They may take the trifle   Termed mortality!  To invest existence with a stately air, Needs but to remember   That the acorn there Is the egg of forests   For the upper air!         'S    It's such a little thing to weep,   So short a thing to sigh  And yet by trades the size of these   We men and women die!         Drowning is not so pitiful   As the attempt to rise  Three times, 't is said, a sinking man   Comes up to face the skies, And then declines forever   To that abhorred abode Where hope and he part company, --   For he is grasped of God  The Maker's cordial visage,   However good to see, Is shunned, we must admit it,   Like an adversity       X   How still the bells in steeples stand,   Till, swollen with the sky, They leap upon their silver feet   In frantic melody!         If the foolish call them 'flowers,'   Need the wiser tell? If the savans 'classify' them,   It is just as well!  Those who read the Revelations   Must not criticise Those who read the same edition   With beclouded eyes!  Could we stand with that old Moses   Canaan denied, -- Scan, like him, the stately landscape   On the other side, --  Doubtless we should deem superfluous   Many sciences Not pursued by learnèd angels   In scholastic skies!  Low amid that glad _Belles lettres_   Grant that we may stand, Stars, amid profound Galaxies,   At that grand 'Right hand'!         A    Could mortal lip divine   The undeveloped freight Of a delivered syllable,   'T would crumble with the weight             My life closed twice before its close    It yet remains to see If Immortality unveil   A third event to me,  So huge, so hopeless to conceive,   As these that twice befell  Parting is all we know of heaven,   And all we need of hell             We never know how high we are   Till we are called to rise  And then, if we are true to plan,   Our statures touch the skies   The heroism we recite   Would be a daily thing, Did not ourselves the cubits warp   For fear to be a king              While I was fearing it, it came,   But came with less of fear, Because that fearing it so long   Had almost made it dear  There is a fitting a dismay,   A fitting a despair  'Tis harder knowing it is due,   Than knowing it is here  The trying on the utmost,   The morning it is new, Is terribler than wearing it   A whole existence through          A    There is no frigate like a book   To take us lands away, Nor any coursers like a page   Of prancing poetry  This traverse may the poorest take   Without oppress of toll  How frugal is the chariot   That bears a human soul!         Who has not found the heaven below   Will fail of it above  God's residence is next to mine,   His furniture is love          A    A face devoid of love or grace,   A hateful, hard, successful face, A face with which a stone   Would feel as thoroughly at ease As were they old acquaintances, --   First time together thrown          I  A     I had a guinea golden    I lost it in the sand, And though the sum was simple,   And pounds were in the land, Still had it such a value   Unto my frugal eye, That when I could not find it   I sat me down to sigh   I had a crimson robin   Who sang full many a day, But when the woods were painted   He, too, did fly away  Time brought me other robins, --   Their ballads were the same, -- Still for my missing troubadour   I kept the 'house at hame '  I had a star in heaven    One Pleiad was its name, And when I was not heeding   It wandered from the same  And though the skies are crowded,   And all the night ashine, I do not care about it,   Since none of them are mine   My story has a moral:   I have a missing friend, -- Pleiad its name, and robin,   And guinea in the sand, -- And when this mournful ditty,   Accompanied with tear, Shall meet the eye of traitor   In country far from here, Grant that repentance solemn   May seize upon his mind, And he no consolation   Beneath the sun may find     -This poem may have had, like many others, a personal origin  It is more than probable that it was sent to some friend travelling in Europe, a dainty reminder of letter-writing delinquencies              From all the jails the boys and girls   Ecstatically leap, -- Beloved, only afternoon   That prison doesn't keep   They storm the earth and stun the air,   A mob of solid bliss  Alas! that frowns could lie in wait   For such a foe as this!          Few get enough, -enough is one    To that ethereal throng Have not each one of us the right   To stealthily belong?         Upon the gallows hung a wretch,   Too sullied for the hell To which the law entitled him    As nature's curtain fell The one who bore him tottered in,   For this was woman's son  ''T was all I had,' she stricken gasped    Oh, what a livid boon!              I felt a clearing in my mind   As if my brain had split  I tried to match it, seam by seam,   But could not make them fit   The thought behind I strove to join   Unto the thought before, But sequence ravelled out of reach   Like balls upon a floor             The reticent volcano keeps   His never slumbering plan  Confided are his projects pink   To no precarious man   If nature will not tell the tale   Jehovah told to her, Can human nature not survive   Without a listener?  Admonished by her buckled lips   Let every babbler be  The only secret people keep   Is Immortality              If recollecting were forgetting,   Then I remember not  And if forgetting, recollecting,   How near I had forgot! And if to miss were merry,   And if to mourn were gay, How very blithe the fingers   That gathered these to-day!         The farthest thunder that I heard   Was nearer than the sky, And rumbles still, though torrid noons   Have lain their missiles by  The lightning that preceded it   Struck no one but myself, But I would not exchange the bolt   For all the rest of life  Indebtedness to oxygen   The chemist may repay, But not the obligation   To electricity  It founds the homes and decks the days,   And every clamor bright Is but the gleam concomitant   Of that waylaying light  The thought is quiet as a flake, --   A crash without a sound  How life's reverberation   Its explanation found!         On the bleakness of my lot   Bloom I strove to raise  Late, my acre of a rock   Yielded grape and maize   Soil of flint if steadfast tilled   Will reward the hand  Seed of palm by Lybian sun   Fructified in sand             A door just opened on a street --   I, lost, was passing by -- An instant's width of warmth disclosed,   And wealth, and company   The door as sudden shut, and I,   I, lost, was passing by, -- Lost doubly, but by contrast most,   Enlightening misery              Are friends delight or pain?   Could bounty but remain Riches were good   But if they only stay Bolder to fly away,   Riches are sad              Ashes denote that fire was    Respect the grayest pile For the departed creature's sake   That hovered there awhile   Fire exists the first in light,   And then consolidates, -- Only the chemist can disclose   Into what carbonates          A    Fate slew him, but he did not drop    She felled -he did not fall -- Impaled him on her fiercest stakes --   He neutralized them all   She stung him, sapped his firm advance,   But, when her worst was done, And he, unmoved, regarded her,   Acknowledged him a man             Finite to fail, but infinite to venture    For the one ship that struts the shore Many's the gallant, overwhelmed creature   Nodding in navies nevermore             I measure every grief I meet   With analytic eyes  I wonder if it weighs like mine,   Or has an easier size   I wonder if they bore it long,   Or did it just begin? I could not tell the date of mine,   It feels so old a pain   I wonder if it hurts to live,   And if they have to try, And whether, could they choose between,   They would not rather die   I wonder if when years have piled --   Some thousands -on the cause Of early hurt, if such a lapse   Could give them any pause   Or would they go on aching still   Through centuries above, Enlightened to a larger pain   By contrast with the love   The grieved are many, I am told    The reason deeper lies, -- Death is but one and comes but once,   And only nails the eyes   There's grief of want, and grief of cold, --   A sort they call 'despair ' There's banishment from native eyes,   In sight of native air   And though I may not guess the kind   Correctly, yet to me A piercing comfort it affords   In passing Calvary,  To note the fashions of the cross,   Of those that stand alone, Still fascinated to presume   That some are like my own          I have a king who does not speak  So, wondering, thro' the hours meek   I trudge the day away,-- Half glad when it is night and sleep, If, haply, thro' a dream to peep   In parlors shut by day   And if I do, when morning comes, It is as if a hundred drums   Did round my pillow roll, And shouts fill all my childish sky, And bells keep saying 'victory'   From steeples in my soul!  And if I don't, the little Bird Within the Orchard is not heard,   And I omit to pray, 'Father, thy will be done' to-day, For my will goes the other way,   And it were perjury!            It dropped so low in my regard   I heard it hit the ground, And go to pieces on the stones   At bottom of my mind   Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less   Than I reviled myself For entertaining plated wares   Upon my silver shelf              To lose one's faith surpasses   The loss of an estate, Because estates can be   Replenished, -faith cannot   Inherited with life,   Belief but once can be  Annihilate a single clause,   And Being's beggary              I had a daily bliss   I half indifferent viewed, Till sudden I perceived it stir, --   It grew as I pursued,  Till when, around a crag,   It wasted from my sight, Enlarged beyond my utmost scope,   I learned its sweetness right          I worked for chaff, and earning wheat   Was haughty and betrayed  What right had fields to arbitrate   In matters ratified?  I tasted wheat, -and hated chaff,   And thanked the ample friend  Wisdom is more becoming viewed   At distance than at hand          Life, and Death, and Giants   Such as these, are still  Minor apparatus, hopper of the mill, Beetle at the candle,   Or a fife's small fame, Maintain by accident   That they proclaim              Our lives are Swiss, --   So still, so cool,   Till, some odd afternoon, The Alps neglect their curtains,   And we look farther on   Italy stands the other side,   While, like a guard between, The solemn Alps, The siren Alps,   Forever intervene!            Remembrance has a rear and front, --   'T is something like a house  It has a garret also   For refuse and the mouse,  Besides, the deepest cellar   That ever mason hewed  Look to it, by its fathoms   Ourselves be not pursued          To hang our head ostensibly,   And subsequent to find That such was not the posture   Of our immortal mind,  Affords the sly presumption   That, in so dense a fuzz, You, too, take cobweb attitudes   Upon a plane of gauze!             The brain is wider than the sky,   For, put them side by side, The one the other will include   With ease, and you beside   The brain is deeper than the sea,   For, hold them, blue to blue, The one the other will absorb,   As sponges, buckets do   The brain is just the weight of God,   For, lift them, pound for pound, And they will differ, if they do,   As syllable from sound          The bone that has no marrow    What ultimate for that? It is not fit for table,   For beggar, or for cat   A bone has obligations,   A being has the same  A marrowless assembly   Is culpabler than shame   But how shall finished creatures   A function fresh obtain? -- Old Nicodemus' phantom   Confronting us again!             The past is such a curious creature,   To look her in the face A transport may reward us,   Or a disgrace   Unarmed if any meet her,   I charge him, fly! Her rusty ammunition   Might yet reply!         To help our bleaker parts   Salubrious hours are given, Which if they do not fit for earth   Drill silently for heaven          What soft, cherubic creatures   These gentlewomen are! One would as soon assault a plush   Or violate a star   Such dimity convictions,   A horror so refined Of freckled human nature,   Of Deity ashamed, --  It's such a common glory,   A fisherman's degree! Redemption, brittle lady,   Be so, ashamed of thee             Who never wanted, -maddest joy   Remains to him unknown: The banquet of abstemiousness   Surpasses that of wine   Within its hope, though yet ungrasped   Desire's perfect goal, No nearer, lest reality   Should disenthrall thy soul             It might be easier   To fail with land in sight, Than gain my blue peninsula   To perish of delight       L      You cannot put a fire out    A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan   Upon the slowest night   You cannot fold a flood   And put it in a drawer, -- Because the winds would find it out,   And tell your cedar floor          A modest lot, a fame petite,   A brief campaign of sting and sweet   Is plenty! Is enough! A sailor's business is the shore,   A soldier's -balls  Who asketh more Must seek the neighboring life!         Is bliss, then, such abyss I must not put my foot amiss For fear I spoil my shoe?  I'd rather suit my foot Than save my boot, For yet to buy another pair Is possible At any fair   But bliss is sold just once  The patent lost None buy it any more             I stepped from plank to plank   So slow and cautiously  The stars about my head I felt,   About my feet the sea   I knew not but the next   Would be my final inch, -- This gave me that precarious gait   Some call experience              One day is there of the series   Termed Thanksgiving day, Celebrated part at table,   Part in memory   Neither patriarch nor pussy,   I dissect the play  Seems it, to my hooded thinking,   Reflex holiday   Had there been no sharp subtraction   From the early sum, Not an acre or a caption   Where was once a room,  Not a mention, whose small pebble   Wrinkled any bay, -- Unto such, were such assembly,   'T were Thanksgiving day              Softened by Time's consummate plush,   How sleek the woe appears That threatened childhood's citadel   And undermined the years!  Bisected now by bleaker griefs,   We envy the despair That devastated childhood's realm,   So easy to repair             I      Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,   Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee, Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,   Not to partake thy passion, my humility          'S    My worthiness is all my doubt,   His merit all my fear, Contrasting which, my qualities   Do lowlier appear   Lest I should insufficient prove   For his beloved need, The chiefest apprehension   Within my loving creed   So I, the undivine abode   Of his elect content, Conform my soul as 't were a church   Unto her sacrament             Love is anterior to life,   Posterior to death, Initial of creation, and   The exponent of breath             One blessing had I, than the rest   So larger to my eyes That I stopped gauging, satisfied,   For this enchanted size   It was the limit of my dream,   The focus of my prayer, -- A perfect, paralyzing bliss   Contented as despair   I knew no more of want or cold,   Phantasms both become, For this new value in the soul,   Supremest earthly sum   The heaven below the heaven above   Obscured with ruddier hue  Life's latitude leant over-full    The judgment perished, too   Why joys so scantily disburse,   Why Paradise defer, Why floods are served to us in bowls, --   I speculate no more       V    A    When roses cease to bloom, dear,   And violets are done, When bumble-bees in solemn flight   Have passed beyond the sun,  The hand that paused to gather   Upon this summer's day Will idle lie, in Auburn, --   Then take my flower, pray!            Summer for thee grant I may be   When summer days are flown! Thy music still when whippoorwill   And oriole are done!  For thee to bloom, I'll skip the tomb   And sow my blossoms o'er! Pray gather me, Anemone,   Thy flower forevermore!            Split the lark and you'll find the music,   Bulb after bulb, in silver rolled, Scantily dealt to the summer morning,   Saved for your ear when lutes be old   Loose the flood, you shall find it patent,   Gush after gush, reserved for you  Scarlet experiment! sceptic Thomas,   Now, do you doubt that your bird was true?         To lose thee, sweeter than to gain   All other hearts I knew  'T is true the drought is destitute,   But then I had the dew!  The Caspian has its realms of sand,   Its other realm of sea  Without the sterile perquisite   No Caspian could be            Poor little heart!   Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care!    Proud little heart!   Did they forsake thee? Be debonair! Be debonair!    Frail little heart!   I would not break thee: Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?    Gay little heart!   Like morning glory Thou'll wilted be  thou'll wilted be!      X      There is a word   Which bears a sword   Can pierce an armed man  It hurls its barbed syllables,--   At once is mute again  But where it fell The saved will tell   On patriotic day, Some epauletted brother   Gave his breath away   Wherever runs the breathless sun,   Wherever roams the day, There is its noiseless onset,   There is its victory!  Behold the keenest marksman!   The most accomplished shot! Time's sublimest target   Is a soul 'forgot'!         I've got an arrow here    Loving the hand that sent it, I the dart revere   Fell, they will say, in 'skirmish'!   Vanquished, my soul will know, By but a simple arrow   Sped by an archer's bow              He fumbles at your spirit   As players at the keys Before they drop full music on    He stuns you by degrees,  Prepares your brittle substance   For the ethereal blow, By fainter hammers, further heard,   Then nearer, then so slow  Your breath has time to straighten,   Your brain to bubble cool, -- Deals one imperial thunderbolt   That scalps your naked soul          Heart, we will forget him!   You and I, to-night! You may forget the warmth he gave,   I will forget the light   When you have done, pray tell me,   That I my thoughts may dim  Haste! lest while you're lagging,   I may remember him!         Father, I bring thee not myself, --   That were the little load  I bring thee the imperial heart   I had not strength to hold   The heart I cherished in my own   Till mine too heavy grew, Yet strangest, heavier since it went,   Is it too large for you?         We outgrow love like other things   And put it in the drawer, Till it an antique fashion shows   Like costumes grandsires wore          Not with a club the heart is broken,     Nor with a stone  A whip, so small you could not see it      I've known  To lash the magic creature     Till it fell, Yet that whip's name too noble     Then to tell   Magnanimous of bird     By boy descried, To sing unto the stone     Of which it died          ?  My friend must be a bird,     Because it flies! Mortal my friend must be,     Because it dies! Barbs has it, like a bee  Ah, curious friend,     Thou puzzlest me!         He touched me, so I live to know That such a day, permitted so,   I groped upon his breast  It was a boundless place to me, And silenced, as the awful sea   Puts minor streams to rest   And now, I'm different from before, As if I breathed superior air,   Or brushed a royal gown  My feet, too, that had wandered so, My gypsy face transfigured now   To tenderer renown             Let me not mar that perfect dream   By an auroral stain, But so adjust my daily night   That it will come again              I live with him, I see his face    I go no more away For visitor, or sundown    Death's single privacy,  The only one forestalling mine,   And that by right that he Presents a claim invisible,   No wedlock granted me   I live with him, I hear his voice,   I stand alive to-day To witness to the certainty   Of immortality  Taught me by Time, -the lower way,   Conviction every day, -- That life like this is endless,   Be judgment what it may             I envy seas whereon he rides,   I envy spokes of wheels Of chariots that him convey,   I envy speechless hills  That gaze upon his journey    How easy all can see What is forbidden utterly   As heaven, unto me!  I envy nests of sparrows   That dot his distant eaves, The wealthy fly upon his pane,   The happy, happy leaves  That just abroad his window   Have summer's leave to be, The earrings of Pizarro   Could not obtain for me   I envy light that wakes him,   And bells that boldly ring To tell him it is noon abroad, --   Myself his noon could bring,  Yet interdict my blossom   And abrogate my bee, Lest noon in everlasting night   Drop Gabriel and me             A solemn thing it was, I said,   A woman white to be, And wear, if God should count me fit,   Her hallowed mystery   A timid thing to drop a life   Into the purple well, Too plummetless that it come back   Eternity until                 I   'S    The springtime's pallid landscape   Will glow like bright bouquet, Though drifted deep in parian   The village lies to-day   The lilacs, bending many a year,   With purple load will hang  The bees will not forget the tune   Their old forefathers sang   The rose will redden in the bog,   The aster on the hill Her everlasting fashion set,   And covenant gentians frill,  Till summer folds her miracle   As women do their gown, Or priests adjust the symbols   When sacrament is done              She slept beneath a tree   Remembered but by me  I touched her cradle mute  She recognized the foot, Put on her carmine suit, --   And see!         A light exists in spring   Not present on the year At any other period    When March is scarcely here  A color stands abroad   On solitary hills That science cannot overtake,   But human nature feels   It waits upon the lawn    It shows the furthest tree Upon the furthest slope we know    It almost speaks to me   Then, as horizons step,   Or noons report away, Without the formula of sound,   It passes, and we stay:  A quality of loss   Affecting our content, As trade had suddenly encroached   Upon a sacrament               A lady red upon the hill   Her annual secret keeps  A lady white within the field   In placid lily sleeps!  The tidy breezes with their brooms   Sweep vale, and hill, and tree! Prithee, my pretty housewives!   Who may expected be?  The neighbors do not yet suspect!   The woods exchange a smile -- Orchard, and buttercup, and bird --   In such a little while!  And yet how still the landscape stands,   How nonchalant the wood, As if the resurrection   Were nothing very odd!      V       Dear March, come in! How glad I am! I looked for you before  Put down your hat -- You must have walked -- How out of breath you are! Dear March, how are you? And the rest? Did you leave Nature well? Oh, March, come right upstairs with me, I have so much to tell!  I got your letter, and the birds'  The maples never knew That you were coming, -I declare, How red their faces grew! But, March, forgive me -- And all those hills You left for me to hue  There was no purple suitable, You took it all with you   Who knocks? That April! Lock the door! I will not be pursued! He stayed away a year, to call When I am occupied  But trifles look so trivial As soon as you have come, That blame is just as dear as praise And praise as mere as blame             We like March, his shoes are purple,   He is new and high  Makes he mud for dog and peddler,   Makes he forest dry  Knows the adder's tongue his coming,   And begets her spot  Stands the sun so close and mighty   That our minds are hot  News is he of all the others    Bold it were to die With the blue-birds buccaneering   On his British sky            Not knowing when the dawn will come   I open every door  Or has it feathers like a bird,   Or billows like a shore?         A murmur in the trees to note,   Not loud enough for wind  A star not far enough to seek,   Nor near enough to find   A long, long yellow on the lawn,   A hubbub as of feet  Not audible, as ours to us,   But dapperer, more sweet   A hurrying home of little men   To houses unperceived, -- All this, and more, if I should tell,   Would never be believed   Of robins in the trundle bed   How many I espy Whose nightgowns could not hide the wings,   Although I heard them try!  But then I promised ne'er to tell    How could I break my word? So go your way and I'll go mine, --   No fear you'll miss the road          Morning is the place for dew,   Corn is made at noon, After dinner light for flowers,   Dukes for setting sun!      X   To my quick ear the leaves conferred    The bushes they were bells  I could not find a privacy   From Nature's sentinels   In cave if I presumed to hide,   The walls began to tell  Creation seemed a mighty crack   To make me visible          A    A sepal, petal, and a thorn   Upon a common summer's morn, A flash of dew, a bee or two, A breeze A caper in the trees, --   And I'm a rose!         High from the earth I heard a bird    He trod upon the trees As he esteemed them trifles,   And then he spied a breeze, And situated softly   Upon a pile of wind Which in a perturbation   Nature had left behind  A joyous-going fellow   I gathered from his talk, Which both of benediction   And badinage partook, Without apparent burden,   I learned, in leafy wood He was the faithful father   Of a dependent brood  And this untoward transport   His remedy for care, -- A contrast to our respites    How different we are!            The spider as an artist   Has never been employed Though his surpassing merit   Is freely certified  By every broom and Bridget   Throughout a Christian land  Neglected son of genius,   I take thee by the hand          A    What mystery pervades a well!   The water lives so far, Like neighbor from another world   Residing in a jar   The grass does not appear afraid    I often wonder he Can stand so close and look so bold   At what is dread to me   Related somehow they may be, --   The sedge stands next the sea, Where he is floorless, yet of fear   No evidence gives he   But nature is a stranger yet    The ones that cite her most Have never passed her haunted house,   Nor simplified her ghost   To pity those that know her not   Is helped by the regret That those who know her, know her less   The nearer her they get          To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, -- One clover, and a bee, And revery  The revery alone will do If bees are few              It's like the light, --   A fashionless delight It's like the bee, --   A dateless melody   It's like the woods,   Private like breeze, Phraseless, yet it stirs   The proudest trees   It's like the morning, --   Best when it's done, -- The everlasting clocks   Chime noon          A dew sufficed itself   And satisfied a leaf, And felt, 'how vast a destiny!   How trivial is life!'  The sun went out to work,   The day went out to play, But not again that dew was seen   By physiognomy   Whether by day abducted,   Or emptied by the sun Into the sea, in passing,   Eternally unknown              His bill an auger is,   His head, a cap and frill  He laboreth at every tree, --   A worm his utmost goal          A    Sweet is the swamp with its secrets,   Until we meet a snake  'T is then we sigh for houses,   And our departure take At that enthralling gallop   That only childhood knows  A snake is summer's treason,   And guile is where it goes          Could I but ride indefinite,   As doth the meadow-bee, And visit only where I liked,   And no man visit me,  And flirt all day with buttercups,   And marry whom I may, And dwell a little everywhere,   Or better, run away  With no police to follow,   Or chase me if I do, Till I should jump peninsulas   To get away from you, --  I said, but just to be a bee   Upon a raft of air, And row in nowhere all day long,   And anchor off the bar,-- What liberty! So captives deem   Who tight in dungeons are              The moon was but a chin of gold   A night or two ago, And now she turns her perfect face   Upon the world below   Her forehead is of amplest blond    Her cheek like beryl stone  Her eye unto the summer dew   The likest I have known   Her lips of amber never part    But what must be the smile Upon her friend she could bestow   Were such her silver will!  And what a privilege to be   But the remotest star! For certainly her way might pass   Beside your twinkling door   Her bonnet is the firmament,   The universe her shoe, The stars the trinkets at her belt,   Her dimities of blue              The bat is dun with wrinkled wings   Like fallow article, And not a song pervades his lips,   Or none perceptible   His small umbrella, quaintly halved,   Describing in the air An arc alike inscrutable, --   Elate philosopher!  Deputed from what firmament   Of what astute abode, Empowered with what malevolence   Auspiciously withheld   To his adroit Creator   Ascribe no less the praise  Beneficent, believe me,   His eccentricities              You've seen balloons set, haven't you?   So stately they ascend It is as swans discarded you   For duties diamond   Their liquid feet go softly out   Upon a sea of blond  They spurn the air as 't were too mean   For creatures so renowned   Their ribbons just beyond the eye,   They struggle some for breath, And yet the crowd applauds below    They would not encore death   The gilded creature strains and spins,   Trips frantic in a tree, Tears open her imperial veins   And tumbles in the sea   The crowd retire with an oath   The dust in streets goes down, And clerks in counting-rooms observe,   ''T was only a balloon '            The cricket sang, And set the sun, And workmen finished, one by one,   Their seam the day upon   The low grass loaded with the dew, The twilight stood as strangers do With hat in hand, polite and new,   To stay as if, or go   A vastness, as a neighbor, came, -- A wisdom without face or name, A peace, as hemispheres at home, --   And so the night became             Drab habitation of whom? Tabernacle or tomb, Or dome of worm, Or porch of gnome, Or some elf's catacomb?           A sloop of amber slips away   Upon an ether sea, And wrecks in peace a purple tar,   The son of ecstasy             Of bronze and blaze   The north, to-night!   So adequate its forms, So preconcerted with itself,   So distant to alarms, -- An unconcern so sovereign   To universe, or me, It paints my simple spirit   With tints of majesty, Till I take vaster attitudes,   And strut upon my stem, Disdaining men and oxygen,   For arrogance of them   My splendors are menagerie    But their competeless show Will entertain the centuries   When I am, long ago, An island in dishonored grass,   Whom none but daisies know                How the old mountains drip with sunset,   And the brake of dun! How the hemlocks are tipped in tinsel   By the wizard sun!  How the old steeples hand the scarlet,   Till the ball is full, -- Have I the lip of the flamingo   That I dare to tell?  Then, how the fire ebbs like billows,   Touching all the grass With a departing, sapphire feature,   As if a duchess pass!  How a small dusk crawls on the village   Till the houses blot  And the odd flambeaux no men carry   Glimmer on the spot!  Now it is night in nest and kennel,   And where was the wood, Just a dome of abyss is nodding   Into solitude! --  These are the visions baffled Guido    Titian never told  Domenichino dropped the pencil,   Powerless to unfold             The murmuring of bees has ceased    But murmuring of some Posterior, prophetic,   Has simultaneous come, --  The lower metres of the year,   When nature's laugh is done, -- The Revelations of the book   Whose Genesis is June              I   This world is not conclusion    A sequel stands beyond, Invisible, as music,   But positive, as sound  It beckons and it baffles    Philosophies don't know, And through a riddle, at the last,   Sagacity must go  To guess it puzzles scholars    To gain it, men have shown Contempt of generations,   And crucifixion known          We learn in the retreating   How vast an one Was recently among us    A perished sun  Endears in the departure   How doubly more Than all the golden presence   It was before!         They say that 'time assuages,' --   Time never did assuage  An actual suffering strengthens,   As sinews do, with age   Time is a test of trouble,   But not a remedy  If such it prove, it prove too   There was no malady          We cover thee, sweet face    Not that we tire of thee, But that thyself fatigue of us    Remember, as thou flee, We follow thee until   Thou notice us no more, And then, reluctant, turn away   To con thee o'er and o'er, And blame the scanty love   We were content to show, Augmented, sweet, a hundred fold   If thou would'st take it now       V      That is solemn we have ended, --   Be it but a play, Or a glee among the garrets,   Or a holiday,  Or a leaving home  or later,   Parting with a world We have understood, for better   Still it be unfurled          The stimulus, beyond the grave   His countenance to see, Supports me like imperial drams   Afforded royally          Given in marriage unto thee,   Oh, thou celestial host! Bride of the Father and the Son,   Bride of the Holy Ghost!  Other betrothal shall dissolve,   Wedlock of will decay  Only the keeper of this seal   Conquers mortality           That such have died enables us   The tranquiller to die  That such have lived, certificate   For immortality          They won't frown always, -some sweet day   When I forget to tease, They'll recollect how cold I looked,   And how I just said 'please '  Then they will hasten to the door   To call the little child, Who cannot thank them, for the ice   That on her lisping piled       X      It is an honorable thought,   And makes one lift one's hat, As one encountered gentlefolk   Upon a daily street,  That we've immortal place,   Though pyramids decay, And kingdoms, like the orchard,   Flit russetly away          The distance that the dead have gone   Does not at first appear  Their coming back seems possible   For many an ardent year   And then, that we have followed them   We more than half suspect, So intimate have we become   With their dear retrospect          How dare the robins sing,   When men and women hear Who since they went to their account   Have settled with the year! -- Paid all that life had earned   In one consummate bill, And now, what life or death can do   Is immaterial  Insulting is the sun   To him whose mortal light, Beguiled of immortality,   Bequeaths him to the night  In deference to him   Extinct be every hum, Whose garden wrestles with the dew,   At daybreak overcome!            Death is like the insect   Menacing the tree, Competent to kill it,   But decoyed may be   Bait it with the balsam,   Seek it with the knife, Baffle, if it cost you   Everything in life   Then, if it have burrowed   Out of reach of skill, Ring the tree and leave it, --   'T is the vermin's will             'T is sunrise, little maid, hast thou   No station in the day? 'T was not thy wont to hinder so, --   Retrieve thine industry   'T is noon, my little maid, alas!   And art thou sleeping yet? The lily waiting to be wed,   The bee, dost thou forget?  My little maid, 't is night  alas,   That night should be to thee Instead of morning! Hadst thou broached   Thy little plan to me, Dissuade thee if I could not, sweet,   I might have aided thee          Each that we lose takes part of us    A crescent still abides, Which like the moon, some turbid night,   Is summoned by the tides          Not any higher stands the grave   For heroes than for men  Not any nearer for the child   Than numb three-score and ten   This latest leisure equal lulls   The beggar and his queen  Propitiate this democrat   By summer's gracious mien             As far from pity as complaint,   As cool to speech as stone, As numb to revelation   As if my trade were bone   As far from time as history,   As near yourself to-day As children to the rainbow's scarf,   Or sunset's yellow play  To eyelids in the sepulchre    How still the dancer lies, While color's revelations break,   And blaze the butterflies!             'T is whiter than an Indian pipe,   'T is dimmer than a lace  No stature has it, like a fog,   When you approach the place   Not any voice denotes it here,   Or intimates it there  A spirit, how doth it accost?   What customs hath the air?  This limitless hyperbole   Each one of us shall be  'T is drama, if (hypothesis)   It be not tragedy!             She laid her docile crescent down,   And this mechanic stone Still states, to dates that have forgot,   The news that she is gone   So constant to its stolid trust,   The shaft that never knew, It shames the constancy that fled   Before its emblem flew          Bless God, he went as soldiers,   His musket on his breast  Grant, God, he charge the bravest   Of all the martial blest   Please God, might I behold him   In epauletted white, I should not fear the foe then,   I should not fear the fight          Immortal is an ample word   When what we need is by, But when it leaves us for a time,   'T is a necessity   Of heaven above the firmest proof   We fundamental know, Except for its marauding hand,   It had been heaven below          Where every bird is bold to go,   And bees abashless play, The foreigner before he knocks   Must thrust the tears away          The grave my little cottage is,   Where, keeping house for thee, I make my parlor orderly,   And lay the marble tea,  For two divided, briefly,   A cycle, it may be, Till everlasting life unite   In strong society          This was in the white of the year,   That was in the green, Drifts were as difficult then to think   As daisies now to be seen   Looking back is best that is left,   Or if it be before, Retrospection is prospect's half,   Sometimes almost more          Sweet hours have perished here    This is a mighty room  Within its precincts hopes have played, --   Now shadows in the tomb          Me! Come! My dazzled face In such a shining place!  Me! Hear! My foreign ear The sounds of welcome near!  The saints shall meet Our bashful feet   My holiday shall be That they remember me   My paradise, the fame That they pronounce my name             From us she wandered now a year,   Her tarrying unknown  If wilderness prevent her feet,   Or that ethereal zone  No eye hath seen and lived,   We ignorant must be  We only know what time of year   We took the mystery           I wish I knew that woman's name,   So, when she comes this way, To hold my life, and hold my ears,   For fear I hear her say  She's 'sorry I am dead,' again,   Just when the grave and I Have sobbed ourselves almost to sleep, --   Our only lullaby               Bereaved of all, I went abroad,   No less bereaved to be Upon a new peninsula, --   The grave preceded me,  Obtained my lodgings ere myself,   And when I sought my bed, The grave it was, reposed upon   The pillow for my head   I waked, to find it first awake,   I rose, -it followed me  I tried to drop it in the crowd,   To lose it in the sea,  In cups of artificial drowse   To sleep its shape away, -- The grave was finished, but the spade   Remained in memory          I felt a funeral in my brain,   And mourners, to and fro, Kept treading, treading, till it seemed   That sense was breaking through   And when they all were seated,   A service like a drum Kept beating, beating, till I thought   My mind was going numb   And then I heard them lift a box,   And creak across my soul With those same boots of lead, again    Then space began to toll  As all the heavens were a bell,   And Being but an ear, And I and silence some strange race,   Wrecked, solitary, here          I meant to find her when I came    Death had the same design  But the success was his, it seems,   And the discomfit mine   I meant to tell her how I longed   For just this single time  But Death had told her so the first,   And she had hearkened him   To wander now is my abode    To rest, -to rest would be A privilege of hurricane   To memory and me             I sing to use the waiting,   My bonnet but to tie, And shut the door unto my house    No more to do have I,  Till, his best step approaching,   We journey to the day, And tell each other how we sang   To keep the dark away          A sickness of this world it most occasions   When best men die  A wishfulness their far condition   To occupy   A chief indifference, as foreign   A world must be Themselves forsake contented,   For Deity          Superfluous were the sun   When excellence is dead  He were superfluous every day,   For every day is said  That syllable whose faith   Just saves it from despair, And whose 'I'll meet you' hesitates   If love inquire, 'Where?'  Upon his dateless fame   Our periods may lie, As stars that drop anonymous   From an abundant sky          So proud she was to die   It made us all ashamed That what we cherished, so unknown   To her desire seemed   So satisfied to go   Where none of us should be, Immediately, that anguish stooped   Almost to jealousy             Tie the strings to my life, my Lord,   Then I am ready to go! Just a look at the horses --   Rapid! That will do!  Put me in on the firmest side,   So I shall never fall  For we must ride to the Judgment,   And it's partly down hill   But never I mind the bridges,   And never I mind the sea  Held fast in everlasting race   By my own choice and thee   Good-by to the life I used to live,   And the world I used to know  And kiss the hills for me, just once    Now I am ready to go!         The dying need but little, dear, --   A glass of water's all, A flower's unobtrusive face   To punctuate the wall,  A fan, perhaps, a friend's regret,   And certainly that one No color in the rainbow   Perceives when you are gone             There's something quieter than sleep   Within this inner room! It wears a sprig upon its breast,   And will not tell its name   Some touch it and some kiss it,   Some chafe its idle hand  It has a simple gravity   I do not understand!  While simple-hearted neighbors   Chat of the 'early dead,' We, prone to periphrasis,   Remark that birds have fled!         The soul should always stand ajar,   That if the heaven inquire, He will not be obliged to wait,   Or shy of troubling her   Depart, before the host has slid   The bolt upon the door, To seek for the accomplished guest, --   Her visitor no more          Three weeks passed since I had seen her, --   Some disease had vexed  'T was with text and village singing   I beheld her next,  And a company -our pleasure   To discourse alone  Gracious now to me as any,   Gracious unto none   Borne, without dissent of either,   To the parish night  Of the separated people   Which are out of sight?         I breathed enough to learn the trick,   And now, removed from air, I simulate the breath so well,   That one, to be quite sure  The lungs are stirless, must descend   Among the cunning cells, And touch the pantomime himself    How cool the bellows feels!         I wonder if the sepulchre   Is not a lonesome way, When men and boys, and larks and June   Go down the fields to hay!              If tolling bell I ask the cause    'A soul has gone to God,' I'm answered in a lonesome tone    Is heaven then so sad?  That bells should joyful ring to tell   A soul had gone to heaven, Would seem to me the proper way   A good news should be given          If I may have it when it's dead   I will contented be  If just as soon as breath is out   It shall belong to me,  Until they lock it in the grave,   'T is bliss I cannot weigh, For though they lock thee in the grave,   Myself can hold the key   Think of it, lover! I and thee   Permitted face to face to be  After a life, a death we'll say, --   For death was that, and this is thee          Before the ice is in the pools,   Before the skaters go, Or any cheek at nightfall   Is tarnished by the snow,  Before the fields have finished,   Before the Christmas tree, Wonder upon wonder   Will arrive to me!  What we touch the hems of   On a summer's day  What is only walking   Just a bridge away   That which sings so, speaks so,   When there's no one here, -- Will the frock I wept in   Answer me to wear?            I heard a fly buzz when I died    The stillness round my form Was like the stillness in the air   Between the heaves of storm   The eyes beside had wrung them dry,   And breaths were gathering sure For that last onset, when the king   Be witnessed in his power   I willed my keepsakes, signed away   What portion of me I Could make assignable, -and then   There interposed a fly,  With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,   Between the light and me  And then the windows failed, and then   I could not see to see          Adrift! A little boat adrift!   And night is coming down! Will no one guide a little boat   Unto the nearest town?  So sailors say, on yesterday,   Just as the dusk was brown, One little boat gave up its strife,   And gurgled down and down   But angels say, on yesterday,   Just as the dawn was red, One little boat o'erspent with gales Retrimmed its masts, redecked its sails   Exultant, onward sped!         There's been a death in the opposite house   As lately as to-day  I know it by the numb look   Such houses have alway   The neighbors rustle in and out,   The doctor drives away  A window opens like a pod,   Abrupt, mechanically   Somebody flings a mattress out, --   The children hurry by  They wonder if It died on that, --   I used to when a boy   The minister goes stiffly in   As if the house were his, And he owned all the mourners now,   And little boys besides   And then the milliner, and the man   Of the appalling trade, To take the measure of the house    There'll be that dark parade  Of tassels and of coaches soon    It's easy as a sign, -- The intuition of the news   In just a country town          We never know we go, -when we are going   We jest and shut the door  Fate following behind us bolts it,   And we accost no more      L    'S    It struck me every day   The lightning was as new As if the cloud that instant slit   And let the fire through   It burned me in the night,   It blistered in my dream  It sickened fresh upon my sight   With every morning's beam   I thought that storm was brief, --   The maddest, quickest by  But Nature lost the date of this,   And left it in the sky          Water is taught by thirst  Land, by the oceans passed    Transport, by throe  Peace, by its battles told  Love, by memorial mould    Birds, by the snow            We thirst at first, -'t is Nature's act    And later, when we die, A little water supplicate   Of fingers going by   It intimates the finer want,   Whose adequate supply Is that great water in the west   Termed immortality          A clock stopped -not the mantel's    Geneva's farthest skill Can't put the puppet bowing   That just now dangled still   An awe came on the trinket!   The figures hunched with pain, Then quivered out of decimals   Into degreeless noon   It will not stir for doctors,   This pendulum of snow  The shopman importunes it,   While cool, concernless No  Nods from the gilded pointers,   Nods from the seconds slim, Decades of arrogance between   The dial life and him           Ë'S    All overgrown by cunning moss,   All interspersed with weed, The little cage of 'Currer Bell,'   In quiet Haworth laid   This bird, observing others,   When frosts too sharp became, Retire to other latitudes,   Quietly did the same,  But differed in returning    Since Yorkshire hills are green, Yet not in all the nests I meet   Can nightingale be seen   Gathered from many wanderings,   Gethsemane can tell Through what transporting anguish   She reached the asphodel!  Soft fall the sounds of Eden   Upon her puzzled ear  Oh, what an afternoon for heaven,   When 'Brontë' entered there!         A toad can die of light! Death is the common right   Of toads and men, -- Of earl and midge The privilege    Why swagger then? The gnat's supremacy Is large as thine          Far from love the Heavenly Father   Leads the chosen child  Oftener through realm of briar   Than the meadow mild,  Oftener by the claw of dragon   Than the hand of friend, Guides the little one predestined   To the native land             A long, long sleep, a famous sleep   That makes no show for dawn By stretch of limb or stir of lid, --   An independent one   Was ever idleness like this?   Within a hut of stone To bask the centuries away   Nor once look up for noon?            'T was just this time last year I died    I know I heard the corn, When I was carried by the farms, --   It had the tassels on   I thought how yellow it would look   When Richard went to mill  And then I wanted to get out,   But something held my will   I thought just how red apples wedged   The stubble's joints between  And carts went stooping round the fields   To take the pumpkins in   I wondered which would miss me least,   And when Thanksgiving came, If father'd multiply the plates   To make an even sum   And if my stocking hung too high,   Would it blur the Christmas glee, That not a Santa Claus could reach   The altitude of me?  But this sort grieved myself, and so   I thought how it would be When just this time, some perfect year,   Themselves should come to me             On this wondrous sea, Sailing silently,   Ho! pilot, ho! Knowest thou the shore Where no breakers roar,   Where the storm is o'er?  In the silent west Many sails at rest,   Their anchors fast  Thither I pilot thee, -- Land, ho! Eternity!   Ashore at last!