6 Then, wondering, ask'd her ‘Are you from the farm?' 'Yes' answer'd she. Pray stay a little pardon me ; What do they call you?''Katie.' 'That were strange. What surname?' 'Willows.' 'No!' 'That is my name.' 'Indeed!' and here he look'd so self-perplext, Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. we came back. 'Have you not heard?' said Katie, THE LETTERS. I. TILL on the tower stood the vane, STIL A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air, I peer'd athwart the chancel pane A band of pain across my brow; 'Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet Before you hear my marriage vow.' 2. I turn'd and humm'd a bitter song That mock'd the wholesome human heart, And then we met in wrath and wrong, We met, but only meant to part. Full cold my greeting was and dry; I saw with half-unconscious eye 3. She took the little ivory chest, With half a sigh she turn'd the key, Then raised her head with lips comprest, And gave my letters back to me. And gave the trinkets and the rings, My gifts, when gifts of mine could please; As looks a father on the things Of his dead son, I look'd on these. 4. She told me all her friends had said; But in my words were seeds of fire. 5. 'Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell (And women's slander is the worst), And you, whom once I lov'd so well, Thro' you, my life will be accurst.' I spoke with heart, and heat and force, I shook her breast with vague alarmsLike torrents from a mountain source We rush'd into each other's arms. 6. We parted sweetly gleam'd the stars, So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells; 'Dark porch' I said 'and silent aisle There comes a sound of marriage bells.' ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON. I. OURY the Great Duke BURY With an empire's lamentation, Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation, Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, 2. Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore? Here, in streaming London's central roar. Let the sound of those he wrought for, And the feet of those he fought for, 3. Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, Let the long long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, 4. Mourn, for to us he seems the last, Remembering all his greatness in the Past. No more in soldier fashion will he greet O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fall'n at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew ! Such was he whom we deplore. The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er. The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more. All is over and done: 5. Render thanks to the Giver, Let the bell be toll'd. Render thanks to the Giver, And render him to the mould. Under the cross of gold That shines over city and river, Among the wise and the bold. |