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And cleaves to cairn and cromlech still; or him Or Cowardice, the child of lust for gold, of Geoffrey's book, or him of Malleor's, one Or Labor, with a groan and not a voice, Touch'd by the adulterous finger of a time
Or Art with poisonous honey stol'n from France, That hover'd between war and wantonness,
And that which knows, but careful for itself, And crownings and dethronements: take withal And that which knows not, ruling that which knows Thy poet's blessing, and his trust that Heaven To its own harm : the goal of this great world Will blow the tempest in the distance back Lies beyond sight: yet--if our slowly-grown From thine and ours: for some are scared, who mark, And crown'd Republic's crowning common-sense, Or wisely or unwisely, signs of storm,
That saved her many times, not fail-their fears Waverings of every vane with every wind,
Are morning shadows huger than the shapes And wordy trucklings to the transient hoor, That cast them, not those gloomier which forego And fierce or careless looseners of the faith, The darkness of that battle in the West, And Softness breeding scorn of simple life,
Where all of high and holy dies away.
THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF EDINBURGH.
Whose will is lord thro' all his world-domain
Who made the serf a mau, and burst his chainHas given our Prince his own Imperial Flower,
Alexandrovna. And welcome, Russian flower, a people's pride,
To Britain, when her flowers begin to blow !
From love to love, from home to home you go, From another anto mother, stately bride,
And at thy name the Tartar tents are stirred;
Elburz and all the Caucasus have heard ; And all the sultry palms of India known,
Alexandrovna. The voices of our universal rea,
On capes of Afric as on cliffs of Kent,
The Maoris and that Isle of Continent, And loyal pines of Canada murmur thee,
Yet Harold's England fell to Norman swords;
Yet thine own land has bow'd to Tartar hordes Since Eoglish Harold gave its throne a wise,
For thrones and peoples are as waifs that swing,
And float or fall, in endless ebb and flow;
But who love best bave best the grace to know That Love by right divine is deathless king,
Where men are bold and strongly say their say;
See empire upon empire smiles to-day,
Wbose hand at home was gracious to thy poor:
Thy name was blest within the narrow door ; Here also, Marie, shall thy name be blest,
Or at thy coming, Princess, everywhere,
The blue heaven break, and some diviner air Breathe thro' the world and change the hearts of men,
Alexandrovna: But hearts that chang not, love that cannot cease,
And peace be yours, the peace of soul in soul!
And howsoever this wild world may roll, Between your peoples truth and manful peace,
IN THE GARDEN AT SWAINSTON.
NIGHTINGALEs warbled withont
Within was weeping for thee;
Walked in the walks with me;
And thou wast one of the three.
Of a passion that lasts but a day;
The prince of courtesy lay.
Nightingales sang in the woods
The master was far away:
Two dead men have I known
In courtesy like to thee:
With a love that ever will be;
And thou art last of the three.
Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm; And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands; 'Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf In cluster; then a moulder'd church ; and higher A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill; And high in heaven behind it a gray down With Danish barrows; and a hazel-wood, By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.
(His father lying sick and neoding him)
Here on this beach a hundred years ago, Three children of three houses, Apnie Lee, The prettiest little damsel in the port, And Philip Ray, the miller's only son, And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad Made orphañ by a winter shipwreck, play'd Among the waste and lumber of the shore, Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets, Anchora of rusty fluke, and boats up-drawn ; And built their castles of dissolving sand To watch them overflow'd, or following up Aud flying the white breaker, daily left The little footprint daily wash'd away.
A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff: In this the children play'd at keeping house. Enoch was host one day, Philip the next, While Anpie still was mistress ; but at times Enocn would hold possession for a week : “This is my house and this my little wife.” "Mine too," said Philip, “turn and turn abont:" When, in they quarrellid, Enoch stronger-made Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears, Shriek out, “I hate you, Enoch,” and at this The little wife would weep for company, And pray them not to quarrel for her sake, And say she would be little wife to both.
So these were wed, and merrily rang the bells, And merrily ran the years, seven happy years, Seven happy years of health and competence, And mutual love and honorable toil; With children ; first a daughter. In him woke, With his first babe's first cry, the noble wish To save all earnings to the uttermost, And give his child a better bringing-up Than his had been, or hers; a wish renew'd, When two years after came a boy to be The rosy idol of her solitudes, While Enoch was abroad on wrathful seas, Or often journeying landward ; for in truth Enoch's white horse, and Evoch's oceau-spoil In ocean-smelling osier, and his face, Rough-redden'd with a thousand winter-gales, Not only to the market-cross were known, But in the leafy lanes behind the down, Far as the portal-warding lion-whelp, And peacock-yewtree of the lonely Hall, Whose Friday fare was Enoca’s ministering.
But when the dawn of rosy childhood past, And the new warmth of life's ascending sun Was felt by either, either fixt his heart On that one girl: and Enoch spoke his love, But Philip loved in silence; and the girl Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him ; But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not, And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set A purpose evermore before his eyes, To hoard all savings to the uttermost, To purchase his own boat, and make a home For Annie: and so prosper'd that at last A lnckier or a bolder fisherman, A carefuller in peril, did not breathe For leagues along that breaker-beaten coast Than Enoch. Likewise had he served a year On board a merchantman, and made himself Full sailor; and he thrice had pluck'd a life From the dread sweep of the down-streaming seas: And all men look'd upon him favorably: And ere he touch'd his one-and-twentieth May, He purchased his own boat, and made a home For Apnie, neat and nestlike, half-way up The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.
Then came a change, as all things human change Ten miles to northward of the narrow port Open'd a larger haven: thither used Enoch at times to go by land or sea ; And once when there, and clambering on a nast In harbor, by mischance he slipt and fell: A limb was broken when they lifted him: And while he lay recovering there, his wife Bore him another son, a sickly one: Another hand crept too across his trade Taking her bread and theirs: and on him fell, Altho' a grave and staid God-fearing man, Yet lying thus inactive, donbt and gloom. He seem'd, as in a nightmare of the night, To see his children leading evermore Low miserable lives of band-to-mouth, And her, he loved, a beggar: then he pray'd “Save them from this, whatever comes to me." And while he pray'd, the master of that ship Enoch had served in, hearing his mischance, Came, for he knew the man and valued him, Reporting of his vessel China-bound, And wanting yet a boatswain. Would be go? There yet were many weeks before she sail'd, Sail'd from this port. Would Enoch have the place? And Enoch all at once assented to it, Rejoicing at that answer to his prayer.
Then on a golden autumn eventide, The younger people making holiday, With bag and sack and basket, great and small, Went nutting to the bazels, Philip stay'd
So now that shadow of mischance appear'd No graver than as when some ittle cloud
The current of his talk to graver things
Cats off the fiery highway of the sun,
Thus Enoch in his heart determined all : Then moving homeward came on Annie pale, Nursing the sickly babe, her latest-born. Forward she started with a happy cry, And laid the feeble infant in his arms; Whom Enoch took, and handled all his limbs, Appraised his weight, and fondled fatherlike, But had no heart to break his purposes To Anuie, till the morrow, when he spoke.
But when the last of those last moments came, “Annie, my girl, cheer up, be comforted, Look to the babes, and till 1 .ome again, Keep everything shipshape, for I must go. And fear no more for me ; or if you fear Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds Is He not yonder in those uttermost Parts of the morning ? if I flee to these Can I go from Him? and the sea is His, The sea is His: He made it."
Then first since Enoch's golden ring had girt Her finger, Annie fought against his will: Yet not with brawling opposition she, But manifold entreaties, many a tear, Many a sad kiss by day by night renew'd (Sure that all evil would come out of it) Besought him, supplicating, if he cared For her or his dear children, not to go. He not for his own self caring but her, Her and her children, let her plead in vain ; Su grieving held his will, and bore it thro'.
For Enoch parted with his old sea-friend, Bought Annie goods and stores, and set his hand To fit their little streetward sitting-room With shelf and corner for the goods and stores. So all day long til! Enoch's last at home, Shaking their pretty cabin, hammer and axe, Auger and saw, while Aupie seem d to hear Her own death-scaffo.d rising, shrill'd and rang, Till this was ended, and his careful hand, -The space was narrow,- having order'd all Almost as neat and close as Nature packs Her blossom or her seedling, paused ; and he, Who needs would work for Annie to the last, Ascending tired, heavily slept till morn.
She, when the day that Enoch mention'd came, Borrow'd a glass, but all in vain : perhaps She could not fix the glass to suit her eye; Perhaps her eye was dinn, hand tremulous; She saw him not: and while he stood on deck Waving, the moment and the vessel past.
Ev'n to the last dip of the vanishing sail Sh' watch'd it, and departed weening ion nim; Then, tho' she mouru'd his absence as his grave, Set her sad will no less to chime with his, But throve not in her trade, not being bred To barter, nor compensating the want By shrewduese, neither capable of lies, Nor asking overmuch and taking less, And still foreboding “What would Enoch say?" For more than once, in days of difficulty And pressure, had she sold her wares for less Than what she gave in buying what she sold: She fail'd and sadden'd knowing it; and thus, Expectant of that news which never came, Gain'd for her own a scanty sustenance, And lived a life of silent melancholy.
And Enoch faced this morning of farewell Brightly and boldly. All his Annie's fears, Save as his Apnie's, were a laughter to him. Yet Enoch as a brave God-fearing man Bow'd himself down, and in that mystery Where God-id-man is one with man-in-God, Pray'd for a blessing on his wife and babes Whatever came to him: and then he said, "Annie, this voyage by the grace of God Will bring fair weather yet to all of us. Keep a clean hearth and a clear fire for me, For I'll be back, my girl, before you know it." Then lightly rocking baby's cradle, “and he, This pretty, puny, weakly little one,Nay -- for I love him all the better for itGod bless him, he shall sit upon my knees, And I will tell him tales of foreign parts, And make him merry when I come home again. Come Annie, come, cheer up before I go."
Now the third child was sickly born and grew Yet sicklier, tho' the mother cared for it With all a mother's care: nevertheless, Whether her business often call'd her from it, Or thro' the want of what it needed most, Or means to pay the voice who best could tell What most it needed-howsoe'er it was, After a lingering,-ere she was aware,Like the caged bird escaping suddenly, The little innocent soul flitted away.
Him running on this hopefully she heard, And almost hoped herself; but when he turn'd
In that same week when Anpie buried it,
Philip's true heart, which hunger'd for her peace But Philip did not fathom Annie's mind: (Since Enoch left he had not look'd upon her), Scarce could the woman when he came upon her, Smote him, as having kept aloof so long.
Out of full heart and boundless gratitude “Surely," said Philip, "I may see her now,
Light on a broken word to thank him with.
From distant corners of the street they ran
To greet his hearty welcome heartily: Then struck it thrice, and, no one opening,
Lords of his house and of his mill were they ; Inter'd; but Aunie, seated with her gries,
Worried his passive ear with petty wrongs Fiesh from the burial of her little one,
Or pleasures, hung upon him, play'd with him Cared not to look on any humav face,
And call'd him Father Philip. Philip gain'd But turn'd her own toward the wall and wept. As Enoch lost ; for Enoch seem'd to them Then Philip standing up said falteringly,
Uncertain as a vision or a dream, Annie, I came to ask a favor of you."
Faint as a figure seen in early dawn
Down at the far end of an avenue, He spoke : the passion in her moan'd reply, Going we know not where; and so ten years, "Favor from one so sad and so forlorn
Since Enoch left his hearth and native land,
Fled forward, and no news of Enoch came.
It chanced one evening Annie's children long d
To go with others, nutting to the wood, “I came to speak to you of what he wish'd, And Annie would go with them; then they begga Enoch, your husband: I have ever said
For Father Philip (as they him call'd) too: You chose the best among us - a strong man : Him, like the working-bee in blossom-dust, For where be fixt his heart be set his hand
Blanch'd with his mill, they found ; and saying to To do the thing he willid, and bore it thro'.
him, And wherefore did he go this weary way,
"Come with us, Father Philip,” he denied ; Asd leave you lonely? not to see the world
But when the children pluck'd at him to go, For pleasure ?-nay, but for he wherewithal He laugh'd, and yielded readily to their wish, To give his babes a better oringing-up
For was not Anuie with them? and they went. Than his had been, or you.rs. that was his wish. And if he come again, vext will he be
But after scallog half the weary doin, To tind the precious morning hours were lost. Just where the prone edge of the wood began Aud it would vex him even in his grave,
To feather toward the hollow, all her force If he could know his babes were running wild Fail'd her, and sighing "Let me rest" she said: Like colts about the waste. So, Annie, now
So Philip rested with her well-content; Have we not known each other all our lives? While all the younger ones with jubilant cries I do beseech you by the love you bear
Broke from their elders, and tumultuously Him and his children not to say me nay
Down thro’ the whitening hazels made a plunge For, if you will, when Enoch comes again
To the bottom, and dispersed, and bent or broke Why then he shall repay me-if you will,
The lithe reluctaut boughs to tear away Annie--for I am rich and well-to-do.
Their tawny clusters, crying to each other Now let me put the boy and girl to school. Aud caliing, here and there, about the wood. This is the favor that I came to ask."
But Philip sitting at her side forgot Then Annie with her brows against the wall Her presence, and remember'd one dark hour Answer'd, “I cannot look you in the face;
Here in this wood, when like a wounded life I seem so foolish and so broken down ;
He crept into the shadow : at last he said, When you came in my sorrow broke me down; Lifting his honest forehead, "Listen, Annie, And now I think your kindness breaks me down; How merry they are down yonder in the wood." But Enoch lives; that is borne in on me;
“Tired, Annie?" for she did not speak a word. He will repay yon: money can be repaid;
“Tired ?" but her face had fallin upon her hands; Not kindness such as yours."
At which, as with a kind of anger in him,
“The ship was lost," he said, "the ship was lost!
And Philip ask'd No more of that! why should you kill yourself “Then you will let me, Annie "
And make them orphans quite?" And Anpie said,
“I thought not of it: but-I know not why
There she tnrn'd, Their voices make me feel so solitary.”
Then Philip coming somewhat closer spoke. Then calling down a blessing on his head
“Annie, there is a thing upon my mind, Caught at his hand and wrung it passionately, And it has been upon my mind so long, And past into the little garth beyond.
That tho' I know not when it first came there, So lifted up in spirit he moved away.
I know that it will out at last. O Annie,
It is beyond all hope, against all chance,
I grieve to see you poor and wanting help:
Unless-they say that women are so quick-
Perhaps you know what I would have you know And seldom crost her threshold, yet he sent
I wish you for my wife. I fain would prove Gifts by the children, garden-herbs and fruit, A father to your childrev: I do think The late and early roses from his wall,
They love me as a father : I am sure Or conies from the down, and now and then, That I love them as if they were mive own : With some pretext of fineness in the meal
And I believe, if you were fast my wise, To save the offence of charitable, flour
That after all these sad uncertain years, From his tall mill that whistled on the wasto. We might be still as happy as God grants
To any of His creatures. Think upon it:
Then compass'd round by the blind wall of night For I am well-to-do- no kin, no care,
Brook'd not the expectant terror of her heart,
Suddenly put her tinger on the text,
Under a palmtree, over him the Sun: Can one love twice ? can you be ever loved
“He is gone," she thought, “he is happy, he is sing As Enoch was? what is it that you ask !"
ing "I am content,” he answer'd, "to be loved
Hosanna in the highest: yonder shines A little after Enoch." “0," she cried,
The Sun of Righteousness, and these be palms Scared as it were, "dear Philip, wait a while: Whereof the happy people strowing cried If Enoch comes - bnt Enoch will not come
Hosanna in the highest !?” Here she woke, Yet wait a year, a year is not so long:
Resolved, sent for him and said wildly to him, Surely I shall be wiser in a year:
“There is no reason why we should not wed." O wait a little !" Philip sadly said,
“Then for God's sake,” he answer'd, "both our "Annie, as I have waited all my life
sakes, I well may wait a little.” “Nay," she cried,
So you will wed me, let it be at once.” "I am bound: you have my promise - in a year: Will yon not bide your year as I bide mine ?"
So these were wed and merrily rang the bells, And Philip answered, “I will bide my year." Merrily rang the bells and they were wed. Here both were mute, till Philip glancing up
But never merrily beat Annie's heart. Beheld the dead flame of the fallen day
A footstep seem'd to fall beside her path,
She knew not whence; a whisper on her ear, Page from the Danish barrow overhead;
She knew not what ; nor loved she to be left Then searing night and chill for Annie rose,
Alone at home, nor ventured out alone. And sent his voice beneath him thro' the wood.
What ail'd her then, that ere she enter'd, often Up came the children laden with their spoil ;
Her hand dwelt lingeringly on the latch, Then all descended to the port, and there
Fearing to enter: Philip thought he kuew: A: Anuie's door he paused and gave his hand,
Such doubts and fears were common to her state, Saying gently, “Annie, when I spoke to you,
Being with child: but when her child was born, That was your hour of weakness. I was wrong.
Then her new child was us herself renew'd, I am always bound to you, but you are free."
Then the new mother came about her heart, Theu Annie weeping answer'd, “I am bound."
Then her good Philip was her all-in-all,
And that mysterious instinct wholly died.
And where was Enoch? Prosperonsly sail'd That he had loved her longer than she knew,
The ship “Good Fortune,” tho' at setting forth That autumu into autumn flash'd again,
The Biscay, roughly ridging eastward, shook And there he stood once more before her face,
And almost overwhelm'd her, yet unvext Claimiug her promise. “Is it a year ?" she ask'd. She slipt across the summer of the world, “Yes, if the puts," he said, “be ripe again:
Then after a long tumble about the Cape Come out and see." But she-she put him off- And frequent interchange of foul and fair, so much to look to-such a change-a month
She passing thro' the summer world again,
And sent her sweetly by the goldeu isles,
Till silent in her oriental haveu.
A gilded dragon, also, for the babes.
Less lucky her home-voyage : at first indeed Till half-another year had slipt away.
Thro' many a fair sea-circle, day by day,
Scarce-rocking, her full-busted figure-head By this the lazy gossips of the port,
Stared o'er the ripple feathering from her bows: Abhorrent of a calculation crost,
Then follow'd calms, and then winds variable, Began to chafe as at a personal wrong.
Then baflling, a long course of them; and last Some thought that Philip did but trifle with her ; Storm, such as drove her under moonless heavens Some that she but held off to draw him on;
Till hard upon the cry of “breakers"
The crash of ruin, and the loss of all
Buoy'd upon floating tackle and broken spare Like serpent eggs together, laughingly
These drifted, stranding on an isle at morn
Rich, but the loneliest in a lonely sea.
No want was there of human sustenance,
Soft fruitage, mighty nuts and nourishing roots; And lift the household out of poverty ;
Nor save for pity was it hard to take And Philip's rosy face contracting grew
The helpless life so wild that it was tame. Careworn and wan; and all these things fell on her There in a seaward-gazing mountain-gorge Sharp as reproach.
They built, and thatch'd with leaves of palm, a nota At last one night it chanced Half hut, half native cavern. So the three, That Annie could not sleep, but earuestly
Set in this Eden of all plenteousness, Pray'd for a sign, “my Enoch, is he gone?" Dwelt with eternal summer. ill-content.