But go you hence, and never see me more.' So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell At Dora's feet. She bow'd upon her hands, And the boy's cry came to her from the field, More and more distant. She bow'd down her head, Remembering the day when first she came,
And all the things that had been. She bow'd down And wept in secret; and the reapers reap'd,
And the sun fell, and all the land was dark. Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood Upon the threshold. Was not with Dora.
She broke out in praise To God, that help'd her in her widowhood. And Dora said, 'My uncle took the boy; But, Mary, let me live and work with you: He says that he will never see me more.' Then answer'd Mary, 'This shall never be, That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself: And, now I think, he shall not have the boy, For he will teach him hardness, and to slight His mother; therefore thou and I will go, And I will have my boy, and bring him home; And I will beg of him to take thee back; But if he will not take thee back again, Then thou and I will live within one house, And work for William's child, until he grows Of age to help us.'
Each other, and set out, and reach'd the farm. The door was off the latch: they peep'd, and saw The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks, Like one that loved him; and the lad stretch'd out And babbled for the golden seal, that hung From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire. Then they came in: but when the boy beheld His mother, he cried out to come to her: And Allan set him down, and Mary said: 'O Father!-if you let me call you so—
I never came a-begging for myself,
Or William, or this child; but now I come For Dora: take her back; she loves you well. O Sir, when William died, he died at peace With all men; for I ask'd him and he said, He could not ever rue his marrying me— I had been a patient wife: but, Sir, he said That he was wrong to cross his father thus: "God bless him!" he said, "and may he never know The troubles I have gone thro' !" Then he turn'd His face and pass'd-unhappy that I am!
But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight His father's memory; and take Dora back, And let all this be as it was before.'
So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
By Mary. There was silence in the room;
And all at once the old man burst in sobs:
'I have been to blame-to blame. I have kill'd my son.
I have kill'd him-but I loved him-my dear son.
May God forgive me!—I have been to blame.
The old man's neck, and kiss'd him many times. And all the man was broken with remorse;
And all his love came back a hundredfold;
And for three hours he sobb'd o'er William's child, Thinking of William.
Within one house together; and as years Went forward, Mary took another mate; But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge, like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail : There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads-you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep. Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho’ We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats,
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
Oh, from out the sounding cells What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells-
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells.
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