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So teach ye me the wisest part,
Assured by holy love,
And vocal with such songs as own
Their music not unmeet
Of scenes that erst did bless;
And lasting thankfulnessAnd very soon to break away, Like types, in purer things than they!
I will have hopes that cannot fade, For flowers the valley yields—
I will have humble thoughts, instead
My spirit and my God shall be
ROMAUNT OF MARGRET.
I PLANT a tree whose leaf
Now, reach mine harp from off the wall, Where shines the sun aslant:
The sun may shine and we be cold-
Sitteth the fair ladye
Close to the river side,
Her merry thoughts to guide.
It runneth by the hill ;Nathless, the ladye's thoughts have found A way more pleasant still.— Margret, Margret!
The night is in her hair,
And giveth shade to shade; And the pale moonlight on her forehead white, Like a spirit's hand, is laid :Her lips part with a smile,
Instead of speaking done— I ween she thinketh of a voice, Albeit uttering none !
All little birds do sit
With heads beneath their wingsNature doth seem in a mystic dream, Apart from her living things. That dream by that ladyè
I ween is unpartook ;
For she looketh to the high cold stars, With a tender human look! Margret, Margret
The ladye's shadow lies Upon the running river,— It lieth no less, in its quietness,
For that which resteth never; Most like a trusting heart Upon a passing faith,Or as, upon the course of life,
The steadfast doom of death! Margret, Margret !
The ladye doth not move-
In rest upon the stream!
It shaketh without wind
It parteth from the tide
It standeth upright, in the cleft moonlight
It sitteth at her side!
Margret, Margret !
Look in its face, ladyè,
And keep thee from thy swound! With a spirit bold thy pulses hold, And hear its voice's sound!
For so will sound thy voice,
When thy face is to the wall,And such will be thy face, ladyè,
When the maidens work thy pallMargret, Margret!
"Am I not like to thee?"—
And between each word there seeméd heard
"The like may sway the like!
By which mysterious law, Mine eyes from thine, my lips from thine, The light and breath may draw, Margret, Margret!
"My lips do need thy breath, My lips do need thy smile,And my pale deep eyne, that light in thine
Which met the stars erewhile.
Yet go, with light and life
If that thou lovest one, In all the earth, who loveth thee More truly than the sun, Margret, Margret !"
Her cheek had waxed white
For love's name maketh bold,
Which lit her lifted brow!) "Can earth be dry of streams,
Or hearts of love?"-she said; "Who doubteth love, can know not love,He is already dead!"
"I have"-and here her lips Some word in pause did keep; And gave, the while, a quiet smile, As if they paused in sleep! "I have a brother dear,
A knight of knightly fame; I broider'd him a knightly scarf With letters of my name." Margret, Margret!
"I fed his gray goss-hawk,
I sate at home when he might come,
He looked from the cup, and said,
IT trembled on the grass,
Her face was on the ground-
But the men at sea did that night agree
They heard a drowning cry.
The funeral watch did keep-
As it howl'd to see him weep.
But shrank before the cold;
Oh, light by darkness known! Oh, false, the while thou treadest earth! Oh, deaf, beneath the stone! Margret, Margret !
Nay, friends! no name but His,
Th' eternal Friend undim,
THE DESERTED GARDEN.
Since that I saw this gardine wasted.-SPENSER.
I MIND me in the days departed, How often, underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.
The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; And, wheresoe'er had fallen the spade, The greenest grasses nature led, To sanctify her right.
I called it my wilderness, For no one enter'd there but I; The sheep look'd in, the grass t' espy, And passed ne'ertheless.
The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.
Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.
Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen.
Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him
On these the most of all;
And lady stately overmuch, Who moved with a silken noise, Blush'd near them, dreaming of the voice That liken'd her to such !
And these, to make a diadem, She may have often pluck'd and twined,— Half-smiling as it came to mind,
That few would look at them.
Oh! little thought that lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows,
And silk was changed for shroud !—