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• The ever-shifting currents of the blood A name for ever !— lying robed and
According to my humour ebb and flow. crown'd,
Her warbling voice, a lyre of widest range Nay-yet it chafes me that I could not Struck by all passion, did fall down bend
and glance One will ; nor tame and tutor with From tone to tone, and glided thro' all
change That dull cold blooded Cæsar. Prythee, Of liveliest utterance.
friend, Where is Mark Antony?
When she made pause I knew not for
delight; “The man, my lover, with whom I rode Because with sudden motion from the sublime
ground On Fortune's neck : we sat as God by She raised her piercing orbs, and fill'd with God:
light The Nilus would have risen before his time The interval of sound. And flooded at our nod.
Still with their fires Love tipt his keenest • We drank the Libyan Sun to sleep, and lit
As once they drew into two burning rings Lamps which out-burn'd Canopus. O All beams of Love, melting the mighty
hearts In Egypt ! O the dalliance and the wit, Of captains and of kings. The flattery and the strife,
Slowly my sense undazzled. Then I heard * And the wild kiss, when fresh from war's A noise of some one coming thro' the alarms,
lawn, My Hercules, my Roman Antony, And singing clearer than the crested bird My mailed Bacchus leapt into my arms, That claps his wings at dawn. Contented there to die !
• The torrent brooks of hallow'd Israel • And there he died : and when I heard
From craggy hollows pouring, late and my name
soon, Sigh'd forth with life I would not brook Sound all night long, in falling thro' the
dell, of the other : with a worm I balk'd his Far-heard beneath the moon.
fame. What else was left? look here!' • The balmy moon of blessed Israel
Floods all the deep-blue gloom with (With that she tore her robe apart, and half beams divine : The polish'd argent of her breast to All night the splinter'd crags that wall sight
the dell Laid bare. Thereto she pointed with a With spires of silver shine.'
laugh, Showing the aspick's bite.)
As one that museth where broad sunshine
laves *I died a Queen. The Roman soldier The lawn by some cathedral, thro' the found
door Me lying dead, my crown about my Hearing the holy organ rolling waves brows,
Of sound on roof and floor
Within, and anthem sung, is charm’d and • The light white cloud swam tied
Anon To where he stands, --so stood I, when We heard the lion roaring from his den ; that flow
We saw the large white stars rise one by Of music left the lips of her that died
one, To save her father's vow ;
Or, from the darken'd glen, The daughter of the warrior Gileadite,
· Saw God divide the night with flying A maiden pure ; as when she went
And thunder on the everlasting hills. From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome I heard Him, for He spake, and grief light,
became With timbrel and with song.
A solemn scorn of ills. My words leapt forth : Heaven heads
When the next moon was roll'd into the count of crimes With that wild oath.' She render'd
Strength came to me that equallid my
desire. answer high : • Not so, nor once alone ; a thousand times
How beautiful a thing it was to die I would be born and die.
For God and for my sire !
• It comforts me in this one thought to 'Single I grew, like some green plant,
dwell, whose root
That I subdued me to my father's will ; Creeps to the garden water-pipes be
Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell, neath,
Sweetens the spirit still. Feeding the flower ; but ere my flower to fruit
. Moreover it is written that my race Changed, I was ripe for death.
Hew'd Ammon, hip and thigh, from
Aroer My God, my land, my father—these did
On Arnon unto Minneth.' Here her face
Glow'd, as I look'd at her. Me from my bliss of life, that Nature gave,
She lock'd her lips : she left me where I Lower'd softly with a threefold cord of
stood : love
"Glory to God,' she sang, and past Down to a silent grave.
Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, ' And I went mourning, “No fair Hebrew Toward the morning-star.
boy Shall smile away my maiden blame Losing her carol I stood pensively, among
As one that from a casement leans his The Hebrew mothers "-emptied of all head, joy,
When midnight bells cease ringing sud. Leaving the dance and song,
And the old year is dead. • Leaving the olive-gardens far below, Leaving the promise of my bridal * Alas! alas !' a low voice, full of care, bower,
Murmur'd beside me: Turn and look The valleys of grape-loaded vines that
on me : glow
I am that Rosamond, whom men call fair, Beneath the battled tower.
If what I was I be.
• Would I had been some maiden coarse As when a soul laments, which hath been and poor !
blest, O me, that I should ever see the light ! Desiring what is mingled with past Those dragon eyes of anger'd Eleanor
years, Do hunt me, day and night.'
In yearnings that can never be exprest
By signs or groans or tears ; She ceased in tears, fallen from hope and trust :
Because all words, tho'cull'd with choicest To whom the Egyptian : 0, you
art, tamely died !
Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, You should have clung to Fulvia's waist, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart and thrust
Faints, faded by its heat.
THE BLACKBIRD. creeping beams, Stoln to my brain, dissolved the mystery O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: Of folded sleep. The captain of my While all the neighbours shoot thee dreams
round, Ruled in the eastern sky.
I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground,
Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell. Morn broaden'd on the borders of the dark,
The espaliers and the standards all Ere I saw her, who clasp'd in her last Are thine ; the range of lawn and trance
park : Her murder'd father's head, or Joan of
The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, Arc,
All thine, against the garden wall.
Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that gold dagger of thy bill
breath, Sweet as new buds in Spring.
Cold February loved, is dry :
Plenty corrupts the melody No memory labours longer from the deep That made thee famous once, when Gold - mines of thought to lift the
young : hidden ore That glimpses, moving up, than I from And in the sultry garden-squares, sleep
Now thy flute - notes are changed to To gather and tell o'er
I hear thee not at all, or hoarse Each little sound and sight. With what | As when a hawker hawks his wares.
dull pain Compass'd, how eagerly I sought to Take warning! he that will not sing strike
While yon sun prospers in the blue, Into that wondrous track of dreams Shall sing for want, ere leaves are again!
new, But no two dreams are like.
Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.
Shake hands, before you die. THE DEATH OF THE OLD
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you : YEAR.
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.
Alack! our friend is gone.
Close up his eyes : tie up his chin : And tread softly and speak low,
Step from the corpse, and let him in For the old year lies a-dying.
That standeth there alone,
And waiteth at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my
friend, Old year, you shall not die.
And a new face at the door, my
friend, He lieth still : he doth not move :
A new face at the door.
TO J. S.
The wind, that beats the mountain, blows
That are cast in gentle mould.
And me this knowledge bolder made, A jollier year we shall not see.
Or else I had not dared to flow But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
In these words toward you, and invade And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
Even with a verse your holy woe. He was a friend to me.
Old year, you shall not die; 'Tis strange that those we lean on most,
Fall into shadow, soonest lost :
Those we love first are taken first. He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er.
God gives us love. Something to love To see him die, across the waste
He lends us; but, when love is grown
Falls off, and love is left alone.
In grief I am not all unlearn'd; And the New-year blithe and bold, Once thro's mine own doors Death did my friend,
pass ; Comes up to take his own.
One went, who never hath return'd. llow hard he breathes ! over the snow He will not smile—not speak to me I heard just now the crowing cock.
Two years his chair is The shadows flicker to and fro : The cricket chirps : the light burns low : Empty before us. That was he 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.
Without whose life I had not been.
Words weaker than your grief would
make Grief more. 'Twere better I should
Your loss is rarer; for this star
Rose with you thro' a little arc 'f heaven, nor having wander'd far
Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother : his mute dust
I honour and his living worth : A man more pure and bold and just
Was never born into the earth.
Although myself could almost take
The place of him that sleeps in
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace :
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.
Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet ;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
ON A MOURNER.
NATURE, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
I have not look'd upon you nigh,
Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I :
I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew,
Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you,
• Weep, weeping dulls the inward
pain.' Let Grief be her own mistress still.
She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will
Be done—to weep or not to weep. I will not say, 'God's ordinance
Of Death is blown in every wind ;' For that is not a common chance
That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone
In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,
And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace ! Memory standing near
Cast down her eyes, and in her
throat Her voice seemd distant, and a tear
Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth,
How should I soothe you anyway, Who miss the brother of your youth?
Yet something I did wish to say : For he too was a friend to me :
Both are my friends, and my true
breast Bleedeth for both ; yet it may be
That only silence suiteth best.
Fills out the homely quickset-screens,
And makes the purple lilac ripe, Steps from her airy hill, and greens The swamp, where humm'd the drop
ping snipe, With moss and braided marish-pipe ;
And on thy heart a finger lays,
Saying, “ Beat quicker, for the time Is pleasant, and the woods and ways
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime Put forth and feel a gladder clime.'
And murmurs of a deeper voice,
Going before to some far shrine,
Till all thy life one way incline