LXVIII.

All grass of silky feather grow—

And while he sinks or swells

The full south-breeze around thee blow

The sound of minster bells.

LXIX.

The fat earth feed thy branchy root,

That under deeply strikes!

The northern morning o'er thee shoot,

High up, in silver spikes!

LXX.

Nor ever lightning char thy grain,

But, rolling as in sleep,

Low thunders bring the mellow rain,

That makes thee broad and deep!

LXXI.

VOL. II.

And hear me swear a solemn oath,

That only by thy side

Will I to Olive plight my troth,

And gain her for

my bride.

G

LXXII.

And when my marriage-morn may fall,

She, Dryad-like, shall wear

Alternate leaf and acorn-ball

In wreath about her hair.

LXXIII.

And I will work in prose

and rhyme,

And praise thee more in both

Than bard has honour'd beech or lime,

Or that Thessalian growth,

LXXIV.

In which the swarthy ringdove sat,
And mystic sentence spoke ;

And more than England honours that,

Thy famous brother-oak,

LXXV.

Wherein the younger Charles abode

Till all the paths were dim,

And far below the Roundhead rode,

And humm'd a surly hymn.

LOVE AND DUTY.

Of love that never found his earthly close,

What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts?
Or all the same as if he had not been?

Not so.
Still father Truth? O shall the braggart shout
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself
Thro' madness, hated by the wise, to law
System and empire? Sin itself be found
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun ?
And only he, this wonder, dead, become
Mere highway dust? or year by year alone
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life,
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself?

Shall Error in the round of time

If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all, Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,

The staring eye glazed o'er with sapless days,

The long mechanic pacings to and fro,

The set gray life, and apathetic end.

But am I not the nobler thro' thy love?
O three times less unworthy! likewise thou
Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years.
The Sun will run his orbit, and the Moon
Her circle. Wait, and Love himself will bring
The drooping flower of knowledge changed to fruit
Of wisdom. Wait: my faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
Will some one say, then why not ill for good?
Why took
ye not your pastime ? To that man

My work shall answer, since I knew the right

And did it; for a man is not as God,

But then most Godlike being most a man.

-So let me think 'tis well for thee and me

Ill-fated that I am, what lot is mine

Whose foresight preaches peace, my heart so slow

To feel it for how hard it seem'd to me,

When eyes, love-languid thro' half-tears, would dwell

One earnest, earnest moment upon mine,

Then not to dare to see! when thy low voice,
Faltering, would break its syllables, to keep
My own full-tuned,-hold passion in a leash,
And not leap forth and fall about thy neck,
And on thy bosom, (deep-desired relief!)
Rain out the heavy mist of tears, that weigh'd
Upon my brain, my senses and my soul!

For Love himself took part against himself
To warn us off, and Duty loved of Love—
O this world's curse,-beloved but hated-came
Like Death betwixt thy dear embrace and mine,
And crying, "Who is this? behold thy bride,"
She push'd me from thee.

If the sense is hard

To alien ears, I did not speak to these

No, not to thee, but to thyself in me :

Hard is my doom and thine: thou knowest it all.
Could Love part thus ? was it not well to speak,
To have spoken once? It could not but be well.
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,
And all good things from evil, brought the night