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Didst die for me, for such as me,

And perfect rest so inward is; Patient of ill, and death, and scorn,

And loveth so his innocent heart, And that my sin was as a thorn

Her temple and her place of birth, Among the thorns that girt Thy brow, Where she would ever wish to dwell, Wounding Thy soul.—That even now, Life of the fountain there, beneath In this extremest misery

Its salient springs, and far apart, Of ignorance, I should require

Hating to wander out on earth, A sign ! and if a bolt of fire

Or breathe into the hollow air, Would rive the slumbrous summer noon Whose chillness would make visible While I do pray to Thee alone,

Her subtil, warm, and golden breath, Think my belief would stronger grow ! Which mixing with the infant's blood, Is not my human pride brought low? Fulfils him with beatitude. The boastings of my spirit still ?

Oh! sure it is a special care The joy I had in my freewill

Of God, to fortify from doubt, All cold, and dead, and corpse-like grown? To arm in proof, and guard about And what is left to me, but Thou, With triple-mailed trust, and clear And faith in Thee? Men pass me by ; Delight, the infant's dawning year. Christians with hapi countenancesAnd children all seem full of Thee ! Would that my gloomed fancy were And women smile with saint-like glances As thine, my mother, when with brows Like Thine own mother's when she bow'd Propt on thy knees, my hands upheld Above Thee, on that happy morn In thine, I listen’d to thy vows, When angels spake to men aloud, For me outpour'd in holiest prayerAnd Thou and peace to earth were born. For me unworthy !--and beheld Goodwill to me as well as all

Thy mild deep eyes upraised, that knew I one of them : my brothers they : The beauty and repose of faith, Brothers in Christ—a world of peace And the clear spirit shining thro'. And confidence, day after day ;

Oh! wherefore do we grow awry And trust and hope till things should cease, From roots which strike so deep? why And then one Heaven receive us all.


Paths in the desert ? Could not I How sweet to have a common faith! Bow myself down, where thou hast knelt, To hold a common scorn of death! To the earth--until the ice would melt And at a burial to hear

Here, and I feel as thou hast felt ? The creaking cords which wound and eat What Devil had the heart to scathe Into my human heart, whene'er

Flowers thou hadst rear'd-to brush the Earth goes to earth, with grief, not fear,

dew With hopeful grief, were passing sweet ! From thine own lily, when thy grave

Was deep, my mother, in the clay? Thrice happy state again to be

Myself? Is it thus? Myself ? Had I The trustful infant on the knee !

So little love for thee? But why Who lets his rosy fingers play

Prevail'd not thy pure prayers ? Why About his mother's neck, and knows

pray Nothing beyond his mother's eyes. To one who heeds not, who can save They comfort him by night and day ; But will not? Great in faith, and strong They light his little life alway;

Against the grief of circumstance He hath no thought of coming woes; Wert thou, and yet unheard. What if He hath no care of life or death; Thou pleadest still, and seest me drive Scarce outward signs of joy arise, Thro' utter dark a full-sail'd skiff, Because the Spirit of happiness

Unpiloted i’ the echoing dance

Of reboant whirlwinds, stooping low If so be that from doubt at length,
Unto the death, not sunk! I know Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,
At matins and at evensong,

An image with profulgent brows,
That thou, if thou wert yet alive,

And perfect limbs, as from the storm
In deep and daily prayers would'st strive Of running fires and fluid range
To reconcile me with thy God.

Of lawless airs, at last stood out
Albeit, my hope is gray, and cold This excellence and solid form
At heart, thou wouldest murmur still — Of constant beauty. (For the Ox
• Bring this lamb back into Thy fold, Feeds in the herb, and sleeps, or fills
My Lord, if so it be Thy will.

The horned valleys all about,
Would'st tell me I must brook the rod And hollows of the fringed hills
And chastisement of human pride ; In summer heats, with placid lows
That pride, the sin of devils, stood Unfearing, till his own blood flows
Betwixt me and the light of God ! About his hoof. And in the flocks
That hitherto I had defied

The lamb rejoiceth in the year, And had rejected God—that grace

And raceth freely with his fere, Would drop from his o'er-brimming love, And answers to his mother's calls As manna on my wilderness

From the flower'd furrow. In a time, If I would pray—that God would move

Of which he wots not, run short pains And strike the hard, hard rock, and thence, Thro' his warm heart ; and then, from Sweet in their utmost bitterness,

whence Would issue tears of penitence

He knows not, on his light there falls
Which would keep green hope's life. A shadow ; and his native slope,

Where he was wont to leap and climb,
I think that pride hath now no place

Floats from his sick and filmed eyes, Nor sojourn in

And something in the darkness draws Dark, formless, utterly destroyed. His forehead earthward, and he dies.

Shall man live thus, in joy and hope

As a young lamb, who cannot dream, Why not believe then? Why not yet

Living, but that he shall live on? Anchor thy frailty there, where man

Shall we not look into the laws Hath moor'd and rested ? Ask the sea

of life and death, and things that seem, At midnight, when the crisp slope waves

And things that be, and analyse After a tempest, rib and fret

Our double nature, and compare The broad-imbased beach, why he

All creeds till we have found the one, Slumbers not like a mountain tarn ?

If one there be ?' Ay me! I fear Wherefore his ridges are not curls

All may not doubt, but everywhere And ripples of an inland mere ?

Some must clasp Idols. Yet, my God, Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can

Whom call I Idol ? Let Thy dove Draw down into his vexed pools

Shadow me over, and my sins All that blue heaven which hues and paves

Be unremember'd, and Thy love
The other? I am too forlorn,

Enlighten me. Oh teach me yet
Too shaken : my own weakness fools
My judgment, and my spirit whirls, Sat Somewhat before the heavy clod

Weighs on me, and the busy fret
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.

Of that sharp-headed worm begins

In the gross blackness underneath. * Yet,' said I, in my morn of youth, The unsunn'd freshness of my strength, O weary life! O weary death! When I went forth in quest of truth, O spirit and heart made desolate ! * It is man's privilege to doubt,

O damned vacillating state !






When my passion seeks

Pleasance in love-sighs,
Below the thunders of the upper deep ; She, looking thro' and thro' me
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea, Thoroughly to undo me,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

Smiling, never speaks : The Kraken sleepeth : faintest sunlights So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, flee

From beneath her gathered wimple About his shadowy sides : above him swell Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Huge sponges of millennial growth and Till the lightning laughters dimple height;

The baby-roses in her cheeks ; And far away into the sickly light,

Then away she flies. From many a wondrous grot and secret

III. cell Unnumber'd and enormous polypi

Prythee weep, May Lilian ! Winnow with giant arms the slumbering Gaiety without eclipse green.

Wearieth me, May Lilian :
There hath he lain for ages and will lie Thro' my very heart it thrilleth
Battening upon huge seaworms in his When from crimson-threaded lips

Silver-treble laughter trilleth :
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep ; Prythee weep, May Lilian.
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the sur-
face die.

Praying all I can,
If prayers will not hush thee,

Airy Lilian,

Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee,

Fairy Lilian.
The winds, as at their hour of birth,
Leaning upon the ridged sea,

Breathed low around the rolling earth

With mellow preludes, “We are free.' The streams through many a lilied row

Eyes not down-dropt nor over- bright, Down-carolling to the crisped sea,

but fed Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow

With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Atween the blossoms, “We are free.'

Clear, without heat, undying, tended by
Pure vestal thoughts in the trans-

lucent fane

Of her still spirit; locks not wide-dispread, LILIAN.

Madonna - wise on either side her


Sweet lips whereon perpetually did Airy, fairy Lilian,

reign Flitting, fairy Lilian,

The summer calm of golden charity, When I ask her if she love me,

Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood, Claps her tiny hands above me,

Revered Isabel, the crown and head, Laughing all she can ;

The stately flower of female fortitude, She'll not tell me if she love me,

Of perfect wifehood and pure lowliCruel little Lilian.




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Mariana in the moated grange.'

Measure for Measure.

The intuitive decision of a bright
And thorough-edged intellect to part
Error from crime ; a prudence to

The laws of marriage character'd in

gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward, giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow

Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, tho' unde

scried, Winning its way with extreme gentle

ness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; A courage to endure and to obey ; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life, The queen of marriage, a most perfect


With blackest moss the flower-plots

Were thickly crusted, one and all : The rusted nails fell from the knots

That held the pear to the gable-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:

Unlifted was the clinking latch ;

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, My life is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, “I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'

Her tears fell with the dews at even;

Her tears fell ere the dews were dried ; She could not look on the sweet heaven,

Either at morn or eventide. After the fitting of the bats,

When thickest dark did trance the sky,

She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats.

She only said, “The night is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'


The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon;
A clear stream flowing with a muddy one,
Till in its onward current it absorbs
With swister movement and in purer

The vexed eddies of its wayward

brother : A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had

fallen quite With cluster'd flower - bells and am

brosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each

otherShadow forth thee:- the world hath

not another (Tho' all her fairest forms are types of

thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish'd chasten'd purity.

Upon the middle of the night,

Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light :

From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her : without hope of change,

In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed


About the lonely moated grange.

She only said, “The day is dreary,

He cometh not,' she said ;
She said, I am aweary, aweary,

I would that I were dead !'

About a stone-cast from the wall

A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small,

The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.



Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark :

For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.

She only said, My life is dreary, CLEAR-HEADED friend, whose joyful scorn,
He cometh not,' she said ;

Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

The knots that tangle human creeds, I would that I were dead !

The wounding cords that bind and strain

The heart until it bleeds,

Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,

Roof not a glance so keen as thine : In the white curtain, to and fro,

If aught of prophecy be mine,

Thou wilt not live in vain.
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,

And wild winds bound within their cell, Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit ;
The shadow of the poplar fell

Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow: Upon her bed, across her brow.

Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now
She only said, “The night is dreary,
He cometh not,' she said ;

With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.
She said, 'I am aweary, aweary,

Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords
I would that I were dead !'

Can do away that ancient lie ;

A gentler death shall Falsehood die,

Shot thro' and thro' with cunning words. All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creak'd ; The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch, Behind the mouldering wainscot Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need, shriek'd,

Thy kingly intellect shall feed, Or from the crevice peer'd about.

Until she be an athlete bold, Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors, And weary with a finger's touch Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Those writhed limbs of lightning speed; Old voices called her from without. Like that strange angel which of old,

She only said, My life is dreary, Until the breaking of the light,

He cometh not,' she said ; Wrestled with wandering Israel,
She said, I am aweary, aweary,

Past Yabbok brook the livelong night,
I would that I were dead !' And heaven's mazed signs stood still

In the dim tract of Penuel. The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,

The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof

The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense ; but most she loathed the hour

When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Thou art not steep'd in golden languors,

Athwart the chambers, and the day No tranced summer calm is thine, Was sloping toward his western bower. Ever varying Madeline.

Then, said she, “I am very dreary, Thro' light and shadow thou dost range,

He will not come,' she said ; Sudden glances, sweet and strange,
She wept, 'I am aweary, aweary,

Delicious spites and darling angers,
Oh God, that I were dead !' And airy forms of fitting change.



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