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I know not whether he came in the Hanover slup,
7. Tell him now : she is standing here at my head Not beautiful now, not even kind; He may take her now; for she never speaks bei
mind, But is ever the one thing silent here. She is not of us, as I divine ; She comes from another stiller world of the dead, Stiller, not fairer than mine.
8. But I know where a garden grows, Fairer than aught in the world beside, All made up of the lily and rose That blow by night, when the season is good, To the sound of dancing music and flutes : It is only flowers, they had no fruits, And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood; For the keeper was one, so full of pride, He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, Would he have that hole in his side ?
9. But what will the old man say ? He laid a cruel snare in a pit To catch a friend of mine one stormy day; Yet now I could even weep to think of it; For what will the old man say When he comes to the second corpse in the pit ?
my head, And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come To bury me, bury me Deeper, ever so little deeper.
1. My life has crept so long on a broken wing Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing: My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer And starry Gemini hang like glorious crowns Over Orion's grave
low down in the west, That like a silent lightning under the stars She seem'd to divide in dream from a band of the
blest, And spoke of a hope for the worid in the coming
And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, Knowing. I tarry for thee,” and pointed to Mars As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's
2. And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear
delight To have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so
fair, That had been in a weary world my one thing
bright; And it was but a dream, yet it lightend my despair When I thought that
war would arise in defence of the right, That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionnaire : No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase, Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore, And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more.
3. And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew, “ It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,” said I (For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure
and true) “ It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, That old hysterical mock-disease should die.” And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath With a loyal people shouting a battle cry, Till I saw the
dreary phantom arise and fly Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death.
4. Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims Of a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold, And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and
shames, Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told;
And bail once more to the banner of battle un.
rollid ! Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall
weep For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring
claims, Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant
liar; And many a darkness into the light shall leap, And shine in the sudden making of splendid names And noble thought be freer under the sun, And the heart of a people beat with one desire; For the peace that I deemed no peace is over and
done, And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic
deep, And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress,
flames The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.
Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a
wind, We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are
noble still, And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better
mind; It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at
the ill; I have felt with my native land, I am one with my
kind, I embrace the purpose of God, and the door
“ HERE, by this brook, we parted; I to the East And he for Italy—too late—too late : One whom the strong sons of the world despise ; For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share, And mellow metres more than cent for cent; Nor could he understand how money breeds, Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could make The thing that is not as the thing that is. O had he lived! In our school-books we say, Of those that held their heads above the crowd, They flourish'd then or then; but life in him Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd On such a tirne as goes before the leaf, When all the wood stands in a mist of green, And nothing perfect: yet the brook he loved, For which, in branding summers of Bengal, Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air, I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it, Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, To me that loved him; for ( brook,' he says,
O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, Whence come you ? ' and the brook, why not?
I come from haunts of coot and herr,
I make a sudden sally
To bicker down a valley.
Or slip between the ridges,
And half a bundred bridges.