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Why should it look like Maud ?
Am I to be overawed
By what I cannot but know
Is a juggle born of the brain?

Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow.
Was it he lay there with a fading eye?
* The fault was mine," he whisper'd, “fly!"
Then glided out of the joyous wood
The ghastly Wraith of one that I know;
And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,
A cry for a brother's blood :
It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till

I die.

6. Back from the Breton coast, Sick of a nameless fear, Back to the dark sea-line Looking, thinking of all I have lost: An old song vexes my ear; But that of Lamech is mine.

2. Is it gone? my pulses beatWhat was it? a lying trick of the brain ? Yet I thought I saw her stand, A shadow there at my feet, High over the shadowy land. It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain, When they should burst and drown with deluging

storms The feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust, The little hearts that know not how to forgive: Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just, Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms, That sting each other here in the dust; We are not worthy to live.

7. For years, a measureless ill, For years, forever, to part, But she, she would love me still, And as long, O God, as she Have a grain of love for me, So long, no doubt, no doubt, Shall I nurse in my dark heart, However weary, a spark of will Not to be trampled out.

8.

XXIV.

1. SEE what a lovely shell, Small and pure as a pearl, Lying close to my foot, Frail, but a work divine, Made so fairily well With delicate spire and whorl, How exquisitely minute, A miracle of design!

Strange, that the mind, when fraugnt
With a passion so intense
One would think that it well
Might drown all life in the eye,~-
That it should, by being so overwrought,
Suddenly strike on a sharper sense
For a shell, or a flower, little things
Which else would have been past by!
And now I remember, I,
When he lay dying there,
I noticed one of his many rings
(For he had many, poor worm) and thought
It is his mother's hair.

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What is it? a learned man
Could give it a clumsy name.
Let him name it who can,
The beauty would be the same.

3.

The tiny cell is forlorn,
Void of the little living will
That made it stir on the shore.
Did he stand at the diamond door
of his house in a rainbow frill ?
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd,
A golden foot or a fairy horn
Thro' his dim water-world?

Who knows if he be dead?
Whether I need have fled ?
Am I guilty of blood ?
However this may be,
Comfort her, comfort her, all things good,
While I am over the sea !
Let me and my passionate love go by,
But speak to her all things holy and high,
Whatever happen to me!
Me and my harmful love go by ;
But come to her waking, find her asleep,
Powers of the height, Powers of the deep,
And comfort her tho I die.

Slight, to be crush'd with a tap
Of my finger-nail on the sand,
Small, but a work divine,
Frail, but of force to withstand,
Year upon year, the shock
or cataract seas that snap
The three-decker's oaken spine
Athwart the ledges of rock,
Here on the Breton strand !

Xxv. COURAGE, poor heart of stone! I will not ask thee why Thou canst not understand That thou art left forever alone : Courage, poor stupid heart of stone. Or if I ask thee why, Care not thou to reply: She is but dead, and the time is at hand When thou shalt more than die.

XXVI.

1.

5. Breton, not Briton; here Like a shipwreck'd man on a coast of ancient fable and fear,Plagned with a flitting to and fro, A disease, a hard mechanic ghost That never came from on high Nor ever arose from below, But only moves with the moving eye, Flying along the land and the main,

O That 't were possible
After long grief and pain
To find the arms of my true lovo
Round me once again!

2. When I was wont to meet her In the silent woody places

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T is a morning pare and sweet,
And a dewy splendor falls
On the little flower that clings
To the turrets and the walls ;
*T is a morning pure and sweet,
Avd the light and shadow fleet ;
She is walking in the meadow,
And the woodland echo rings;
In a moment we shall meet;
She is singing in the meadow,
And the rivulet at her feet
Ripples on in light and shadow
To the ballad that she sings.

But the broad light glares and beats,
And the shadow flits and fleets
And will not let me be;
And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me:
Always I long to creep
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.

XXVII.

1.

7.

Do I hear her sing as of old,
My bird with the shining head,
My own dove with the tender eye!
But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,
There is some one dying or dead,
And a sullen thunder is rollid;
For a tumult shakes the city,
And I wake, my dream is fled :
In the shuddering dawn, behold,
Without knowledge, without pity,
By the curtains of my bed
That abiding phantom cold.

DEAD), long dead,
Long dead!
And my heart is a handful of dust,
And the wheels go over my head,
And my bones are shaken with pain,
For into a shallow grave they are thrust,
Only a yard beneath the street,
And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat,
The hoofs of the horses beat,
Beat into my scalp and my brain,
With never an end to the stream of passing feet,
Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying,
Clamor and rumble, and ringing and clatter,
And here beneath it is all as bad,
For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so:
To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad ?
But up and down and to and fro,
Ever about me the dead men go;
And then to hear a dead man chatter
Is enough to drive one mad.

8.

Get thee hence, nor come again,
Mix not memory with doubt,
Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,
Pass and cease to move about,
"T is the blot upon the brain
That will show itself without.

2.

9. Then I rise, the eavedrops fall, And the yellow vapors choke The great city sounding wido; The day comes, a dull red ball Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke On the misty river-tide.

Wretchedest age, since Time began,
They cannot even bury a man;
And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone,
Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read;
It is that which makes us loud in the world of the

dead :
There is none that does his work, not one;
A touch of their office might have sufficed,
But the churchmen fain would kill their church,
As the churches have kill'd their Christ.

3.

10. See, there is one of us sobbing,

Friend, to be struck by the public foe, No limit to his distress;

Then to strike him and lay him low, And another, a lord of all things, praying

That were a public merit, far, To his own great self, as I guess;

Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin: And another, a statesman there, betraying

But the red life spilt for a private blowHis party-secret, fool, to the press ;

I swear to you, lawful and lawless war
And yonder a vile physician, blabbing

Are scarcely even akin.
The case of his patient,-all for what?
To tickle the maggot born in an empty head,

11. And wheedle a world that loves him not,

O me, why have they not buried me deep enough? For it is but a world of the dead.

Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,

Me, that was never a quiet sleeper? 4.

Maybe still I am but half-dead; Nothing but idiot gabble !

Then I cannot be wholly dumb ; For the prophecy given of old

I will cry to the steps above my head, And then not understood,

And somebody, surely, some kind heart will come Has come to pass as foretold ;

To bury me, bury me
Not let any man think for the public good,

Deeper, ever so little deeper.
But babble, merely for babble.
For I never whisper'd a private affair

XXVIII.
Within the hearing of cat or mouse,

1. No, not to myself in the closet alone, But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the My life has crept so long on a broken wing house;

Thro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, Everything came to be known:

That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing: Who told him we were there?

My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of year

When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, 5.

And the shining daffodil dies, and the Charioteer Not that gray old wolf, for he came not back

And starry Gemini haog like glorious crowns From the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used Over Orion's grave low down in the west, to lie :

That like a silent lightning under the stars He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whulp She seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the to crack;

blest, Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.

And spoke of a hope for the world in *he coming

wars

“And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest, 6.

Knowing I tarry for thee," and pointed to Mars Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,

As he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's And curse me the British vermin, the rat :

breast. I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship,

2. But I know that he lies and listens mute in an ancient mansion's crannies and holes: And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear deArsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it,

light Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls ! To have look'd, tho’ but in a dream, upon eyes so It is all used up for that.

fair,

That had been in a weary world my one thing bright; 7.

And it was but a dream, yet it lighten'd my despair Tell him now: she is standing here at my head; When I thought that a war would arise in defence Not beautiful now, not even kind;

of the right, He may take her now; for she never speaks her That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease, mind,

The glory of manhood stand on his ancient height, But is ever the one thing silent here.

Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionnaire: She is not of us, as I divine ;

No more shall commerce be all in all, and Peace She comes from another stiller world of the dead, Pipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note, Stiller, not fairer than mine.

And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase,

Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothsul shore, S.

And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throat

Shall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more. But I know where a garden grows, Fairer than anght in the world beside,

3. All made up of the lily and rose That blow by night, when the season is good, And as months ran on and rumor of battle grew. To the sound of dancing music and flutes:

“It is time, it is time, O passionate heart," said I It is only flowers, they had no fruits,

(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pare and And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood;

true), For the keeper was one, so full of pride,

“It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye, He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride ; That old hysterical mock-disease should die." For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes, And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breath Would he have that hole in his side ?

With a loyal people shouting a battle cry,

Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and fly 9.

Far into the North, and battle, and seas of death i But what will the old man say? He laid a cruel snare in a pit To catch a friend of mine one stormy day;

Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aims Yet now I could even weep to think of it;

of a land that has lost for a little her Inst of gold, For what will the old man say

And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and When he comes to the second corpse in the pit ?

shames,

liar;

Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told;

I chatter over stony ways, And hail once more to the banner of battle unroild !

In little sharps and trebles, Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weep

I bubble into eddying bays, For those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring

I babble on the pebbles. claims, Yet God's just wrath shall be wreakd on a giant

With many a curve my banks I fret

By many a field and fallow, And many a darkness into the light shall leap

And many a fairy foreland set
And shine in the sudden making of splendid names,

With willow-weed and mallow.
And noble thought be freer under the sun,
And the heart of a people beat with one desire ;

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and

To join the brimming river, done,

For men may come and men may go, And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic

But I go on forever. deep, , And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flames "But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird: The blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire. Old Philip; all about the fields you caught

His weary daylong chirping, like the dry 5.

High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind,

I wind about, and in and out, We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are

With here a blossom sailing, noble still,

And here and there a lusty tront, And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better

And here and there a grayling, mind; It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the And here and there a foamy flake ill;

Upon me, as I travel I have felt with my native land, I am one with my With many a silvery waterbreak kind,

Above the golden gravel, I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom as. sign'd.

And draw them all along, and flow

To join the brimming river,

For men may come and men may go,
THE BROOK ;

But I go on forever.
AN IDYL.

"O darling Katie Willows, his one child !

A maiden of our century, yet most meek; HERE, by this brook, we parted; I to the East

A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse And he for Italy-too late-too late:

Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand;
One whom the strong sons of the world despise ;

Her eyes a bashfui azure, and her hair
For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share,
And mellow metres more than cent for cent;

In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell

Divides threefold to show the fruit within.
Nor could he understand how money breeds,
Thought it a dead thing: yet himself could make

“Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn, The thing taat is not as the thing that is. O had he lived ! In our school-books we say,

Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed,

James Willows, of one name and heart with her. of those that held their heads above the crowd, They flourish'd then or then ; but life in him

For here I came, twenty years back,-the week

Before I parted with poor Edmund; crost Could scarce be said to flourish, only touch'd

By that old bridge which, half in ruins then, On such a time as goes before the leaf, When all the wood stands in a mist of green,

Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleam

Beyond it, where the waters marry-crost,
And nothing perfect : yet the brook he loved,
For which, in branding summers of Bengal,

Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon,
Or ev'n the sweet balf-English Neilgherry air,

And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate, I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it,

Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge,

Stuck; and he clamor'd from a casement, 'run: Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy, To me that loved him ; for "O brook,' be says,

To Katie somewhere in the walks below,

* Run, Katie! Katie never ran : she moved "O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme,

To meet me, winding under woodbine bowers, • Whence come you ?' and the brook, why not? re

A little flutter'd with her eyelids down, plies.

Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally

“What was it ? less of sentiment than sense And sparkle ont among the fern,

Had Katie; not illiterate: neither one
To bicker down a valley.

Who babbling in the fount of fictive tears,

And nursed by mealy-mouthed philanthropies,
By thirty hills I hurry dowr.

Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed.
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,

“She told me. She and James had quarrell'd And half a hundred bridges.

Why?
Till last by Philip's farm I flow

What cause of quarrel ? None, she said, no cause
To join the brimming river,

James had no cause : bnt when I prest the cause,
For men may come and men may go

I learnt that James had flickering jealousies
But I go on forever.

Which anger'd her. Who anger'd James? I said

But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine, "Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn ont, And sketching with her slender-pointed foot Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, Some figure like a wizard's pentagram It has more ivy: there the river; and there On garden gravel, let my query pass Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. Unclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'd

If James were coming. "Coming every day,'

I linger by my shingly hars;
She answer'd, 'ever longing to explain,

I loiter round my cresses ;
But evermore her father came across
With some long-winded tale, and broke him short;

And out again I curve and flow
And James departed vext with him and her.'

To join the brimming river, How could I help her? Would I was it wrong?'

For men may come and men may go, (Claspt hands and that petitionary grace

But I go on forever. of sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke) • would I take her father for one hour,

Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone. For one half-bour, and let him talk to me!"

All gone. My dearest brother, Edmnud, sleeps, And even while she spoke, I saw where James Not by the well-kuown stream aud rustic spire, Made towards us, like a wader in the surf,

But unfamiliar Arno, and the doing Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet.

Of Brunelleschi; sleeps in peace: and he,

Poor Philip, of all bis lavish waste of words "O Katie, what I suffer'd for your sake!

Remains the lean P. W. on his tomb: For in I went and call'd old Philip out

I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walks To show the farm : full willingly he rose:

By the long wash of Australasian seas He led me thru the short sweet-smelling lanes Far off, and holds her head to other stars, or his wheat suburb, babbling as he went.

And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone."
He praised his land, his horses, his machines;
He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs ;

So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a stile
He praised his hens, his geese, his gninea-nens; In the long hedye, and rolling in his mind
His pigeons, who in session on their roofs

Old waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brook
Approved him, bowing at their own deserts : A tonsured head in middle age forlorn,
Then from the plaintive mother's teat, he took Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breatli
Her blind and shuddering puppies, naming each,

of tender air made tremble in the hedge Avd naming those, his friends, for whom they were: The fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings: Then crost the common into Darnley chase

And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near, To show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fern Waiting to pass. In much amaze he stared Twinkled the innumerable ear and tail.

On eyes a bashsul azure, and on hair Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech,

In gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shell He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said:

Divides threefold to show the fruit within : * That was the four-year-old I sold the squire.' Then, wondering, ask'd her, “Are you from the And there be told a long, long-winded tale

farm!" of how the squire had seen the colt at grass,

"Yes," answer'd she. “Pray stay a little: pardou And how it was the thing his danghter wishid,

me; And how he sent the bailiff to the farm

What do they call you ?" "Katie."

"That wer To learn the price, and what the price he ask'd,

strange. Avd how the bailiff swore that he was mad,

What surname ?" “ Willows." “No!" "That is But he stood firm; and so the matter hung;

my name." He gave them line: and tive days after that

" Iudeed !” and here he look'd so self-perplext, He met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece,

That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till he Who then and there had offer'd something more,

Langh'd also, but as one before he wakes, But he stood firm; and so the matter hung;

Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream. He knew the man; the colt would fetch its price;

Then looking at her; “Too happy, fresh and fair, He gave them live: and how by chance at last Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom, (It might be May or April, he forgot,

To be the ghost of one who bore your name
The last of April or the first of May)

About these meadows, twenty years ago."
He found the bailiff riding by the farm,
And, talking from the point, he drew him in,

“Hare you not heard !” said Katie, “ we came

back. And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale, Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand.

We bonght the farm we tenanted before.

Am I so like her? so they said on board. "Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he, Sr, if you knew her in her English days, Poor fellow, could he help it? recommenced, My mother, as it seems you did, the days And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle,

That most she loves to talk of, come with me. Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho,

My brother James is in the harvest-field:
Reform, Whire Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt,

But she-you will be welcome-0, come in i"
Arbaces and Phenomenon, and the rest,
Till, not to die a listener, I arose,
And with me Philip, talking still; and so
We turn'd our foreheads from the falling fun,

THE LETTERS.
And following our own shadows thrice as long
As when they follow'd us from Philip's door,

1. Arrived, and found the son of sweet content

Still on the tower stood the vane, Ho-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well.

A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air,

I peer'd athwart the chancel pane
I steal by lawns and grassy plots,

And saw the altar cold and bare.
I slide by hazel covers ;

A clog of lead was round my feet,
I move the sweet forget-ine-nois

A band of pain across my brow;
That grow for happy lovers.

“Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall moct I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,

Before you hear my marriage vow."
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance

2.
Against my sandy shallows.

I turn'd and hamm'd a bitter song

That mock'd the wholesome human heart
I marmur under moon and stars

And then we met in wrath and wrong,
In brambly wildernesses ;

We met, but only meant to part.

!

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