LVII.

IN those sad words I took farewell:
Like echoes in sepulchral halls,
As drop by drop the water falls.
In vaults and catacombs, they fell;

And, falling, idly broke the peace

Of hearts that beat from day to day,
Half-conscious of their dying clay,

And those cold crypts where they shall cease.

6

The high Muse answer'd: Wherefore grieve

Thy brethren with a fruitless tear?

Abide a little longer here,

And thou shalt take a nobler leave.'

How vain am I

LIX.

IF, in thy second state sublime,

Thy ransom'd reason change replies

With all the circle of the wise,

The perfect flower of human time;

And if thou cast thine eyes below,

How dimly character'd and slight,

How dwarf'd a growth of cold and night, How blanch'd with darkness must I grow!

Yet turn thee to the doubtful shore,

Where thy first form was made a man ; I loved thee, Spirit, and love, nor can The soul of Shakspeare love thee more.

THO' if an eye that's downward cast Could make thee somewhat blench

So be my love an idle tale, And fading legend of the past;

LXI.

YET pity for a horse o'er-driven,

And love in which my

hound has part,

Can hang no weight upon my heart

In its assumptions up to heaven;

And I am so much more than these,

As thou, perchance, art more than I, And yet I spare them sympathy And I would set their pains at ease.

So may'st thou watch me where I weep,

As, unto vaster motions bound,

The circuits of thine orbit round

A higher height, a deeper deep.