By the home that gave me birth,
We stood tranced in long embraces
Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter
Than anything on earth.

A shadow flits before me,
Not thou, but like to thee;
Ah Christ, that it were possible
For one short hour to see
The souls we loved, that they might tell as
What and where they be.

It leads me forth at evening,
It lightly winds and steals
In a cold white robe before me,
When all my spirit reels
At the shouts, the leagues of lights,
And the roaring of the wheels.

Half the night I waste in sighs,
Half in dreams I sorrow after
The delight of early skies ;
In a wakeful doze I sorrow
For the hand, the lips, the eyes,
For the meeting of the morrow,
The delight of happy laughter,
The delight of low replies.

'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And a dewy splendor falls
On the little flower that clings
To the turrets and the walls;
'Tis a morning pure and sweet,
And the light and shadow fleet;
She is walking in the meadow,



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And the woodland echo rings ;
In a moment we shall mcet ;
She is singing in the meadow,
And the rivulet at her feet
Ripples on in light and shadow
fo the ballad that she sings.

Do I hear her sing as of old,
My bird with the shining head,
My own dove with the tender


? But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry There is some one dying or dead, And a sullen thunder is rollid; For a tumult shakes the city, And I wake, my dream is fled; In the shuddering dawn, behold, Without knowledge, without pity, By the curtains of


bed That abiding phantom cold.

8. Get thee hence, nor come again, Mix not memory with doubt, Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, Pass and cease to move about, 'Tis the blot upon the brain That will show itself without

9. TH.en I rise, the eave-drops fall, o i the yellow vapors choke Afterreat city sounding wide; To finly comes, a dull red bal} Round in drifts of lurid smokc,

nisty river-tide. When I w.

10. In the silenıbbub of the market

ed frame,

It crosses here, it crosses there,
Thro' all that crowd confused and loud,
The shadow still the same;
And on my heavy eyelids
My anguish hangs like shame.

Alas for her that met me,
That heard me softly call,
Came glimmering thro' the laurels
At the quiet evenfall,
In the garden by the turrets
Of the old manorial hall.

Would the happy spirit descend,
From the realms of light and song,
In the chamber or the street,
As she looks among the blest,
Should I fear to greet my

Or to say “forgive the wrong,"
Or to ask her, " take me, sweet,
To the regions of thy rest ?

But the broad light glares and beats,
And the shadow flits and fleets
And will not let me be ;
And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me:
Always I long to creep,
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.



DEAD, long dead,
Long dead?
And my heart is a handful of dust,
And the wheels go over my head,
And my bones are shaken with pain,
For into a shallow grave they are thrust,
Only a yard beneath the street,
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat,
The hoofs of the horses beat,
Beat into my scalp and my brain,
With never an end to the stream of passing feet,
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying,
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter,
And here beneath it is all as bad,
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so
To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ?

up. and down and to and fro,
Ever about me the dead men go;
And then to hear a dead man chatter
Is enough to drive one mad.

2. Wretchedest age, since Time began They cannot even bury a man; And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are

gone, Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read; It is that which makes us loud in the world of the

dead; There is none that does his work, not one; A touch of their office might have sufficed, But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.

See, there is one of us sobbing,
No limit to his distress;
And another, a lord of all things, praying
To his own great self, as I guess ;
And another, a statesman there, betraying
His party-secret, fool, to the press;
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing
The case of his patient-all for what?
To tickle the maggot born in an empty head,
And wheedle a world that loves him not,
For it is but a world of the dead.

Nothing but idiot gabble !
For the prophecy given of old
And then not understood,
Has come to pass as foretold ;
Not let any man think for the public good,
But babble, merely for babble.
For I never whisper'd a private affair
Within the hearing of cat or mouse,
No, not to myself in the closet alone,
But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the

house ; Everything came to be known : Who told him we were there?

5. Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used

to lie; He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp

to crack ; Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.

6. Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat;

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