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. Oh 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.'

XLIII.

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 every day'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.

XLIV.

Beloved, 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 colors true,

And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.

་

FROM CROWNED AND BURIED.' 18

O WILD St. Helen! very still she kept him,
With a green willow for all pyramid,
Which stirred a little if the low wind did,
A little more, if pilgrims overwept him,
Disparting the lithe boughs to see the clay
Which seemed to cover his for judgment-day.

Nay, not so long! France kept her old affection
As deeply as the sepulchre the corse;
Until, dilated by such love's remorse
To a new angel of the resurrection,

She cried, Behold, thou England! I would have
The dead whereof thou wottest, from that grave.'

And England answered in the courtesy
Which, ancient foes turned lovers, may befit, -
'Take back thy dead! and, when thou buriest it,
Throw in all former strifes 'twixt thee and me.'
Amen, mine England! 't is a courteous claim:
But ask a little room too

for thy shame!

Because it was not well, it was not well,
Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part
Among the Oceanides, that heart

To bind and bare and vex with vulture fell.
I would, my noble England, men might seek
All crimson stains upon thy breast — not cheek!

I would that hostile fleets had scarred Torbay,
Instead of the lone ship which waited moored
Until thy princely purpose was assured,
Then left a shadow, not to pass away

Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's sun: Green watching hills, ye witnessed what was done!

But since it was done,

-in sepulchral dust

We fain would pay back something of our debt

To France, if not to honor, and forget

How through much fear we falsified the trust
Of a fallen foe and exile. We return

Orestes to Electra-in his urn.

A little urn a little dust inside,

Which once outbalanced the large earth, albeit
To-day a four-years' child might carry it

Sleek-browed and smiling, 'Let the burden 'bide!'
Orestes to Electra !-O fair town

Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down

And run back in the chariot-marks of time,

When all the people shall come forth to meet
The passive victor, death-still in the street
He rode through 'mid the shouting and bell-chime,
And martial music, under eagles which
Dyed their rapacious beaks at Austerlitz!

Napoleon! he hath come again, borne home
Upon the popular ebbing heart, -a sea
Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,
Majestically moaning. Give him room!

Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn
And grave-deep 'neath the cannon-moulded column !

There, weapon-spent and warrior-spent, may rest

From roar of fields, — provided Jupiter

Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near

His bolts! — and this he may; for, dispossessed

The goat Jove sucked as likely to do harm.

And yet

Napoleon! - the recovered name
Shakes the old casements of the world; and we
Look out upon the passing pageantry,

Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim
To a French grave, another kingdom won,
The last, of few spans - by Napoleon.

Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise - sooth!
But glittered dew-like in the covenanted

Meridian light. He was a despot - granted!
But the avros of his autocratic mouth

Said yea

i' the people's French: he magnified The image of the freedom he denied.

And if they asked for rights, he made reply,

'Ye have my glory!' — and so, drawing round them His ample purple, glorified and bound them.

In an embrace that seemed identity.

He ruled them like a tyrant — true! but none
Were ruled like slaves: each felt Napoleon.

I do not praise this man: the man was flawed
For Adam- much more, Christ! — his knee unbent,
His hand unclean, his aspiration pent

Within a sword-sweep — pshaw ! — but, since he had

The genius to be loved, why, let him have
The justice to be honored in his grave.

I think this nation's tears thus poured together
Better than shouts. I think this funeral

Grander than crownings, though a pope bless all.

I think this grave stronger than thrones. But, whether The crowned Napoleon or the buried clay

Be worthier, I discern not: angels may.

THE FORCED RECRUIT.

SOLFERINO, 1859.

IN the ranks of the Austrian you found him,
He died with his face to you all;
Yet bury him here where around him
You honor your bravest that fall.

Venetian, fair-featured and slender,

He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth.

No stranger, and yet not a traitor,

Though alien the cloth on his breast,
Underneath it how seldom a greater
Young heart has a shot sent to rest!

By your enemy tortured and goaded
To march with them, stand in their file,
His musket (see) never was loaded,
He facing your guns with that smile!

As orphans yearn on to their mothers,
He yearned to your patriot bands;
'Let me die for our Italy, brothers,

If not in your ranks, by your hands!

'Aim straightly, fire steadily! spare me
A ball in the body which may
Deliver my heart here, and tear me,

This badge of the Austrian away!'

So thought he, so died he this morning.
What then? many others have died.

Ay, but easy for men to die scorning

The death-stroke, who fought side by side