dull pain

As when a soul laments, which hath been blest,

Desiring what is mingled with past
years,

In yearnings that can never be exprest
By signs or groans or tears;

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art,

Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat.

THE BLACKBIRD.

O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbours shoot thee round,

I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine; the range of lawn and park:

The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the spring,

Thy sole delight is, sitting still,
With that gold dagger of thy bill
To fret the summer jenneting.

A golden bill! the silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry:
Plenty corrupts the melody
That made thee famous once, when

young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to

coarse,

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD

YEAR.

FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing:

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true true-love,
And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go;

So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim;
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

Old year, you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you,
I've half a mind to die with you,
Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
To see him die, across the waste
His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.

Every one for his own.

The night is starry and cold, my friend,

And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend,

Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro :

Shake hands, before you die.

Old year, we'll dearly rue for you :
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone.

Close up his eyes: tie up his chin:
Step from the corpse, and let him in
That standeth there alone,

And waiteth at the door.

There's a new foot on the floor, my friend,

And a new face at the door, my friend,

A new face at the door.

TO J. S.

THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those

That are cast in gentle mould.

And me this knowledge bolder made,

Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe.

'Tis strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed,

Fall into shadow, soonest lost :

Those we love first are taken first.

God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.

'Tis nearly twelve o'clock.

Without whose life I had not been.

Your loss is rarer; for this star

Rose with you thro' a little arc Of 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.

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 seem'd 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.

Words weaker than your grief would make

Grief more. 'Twere better I should

cease

Although myself could almost take

The place of him that sleeps in peace.

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.

I.

NATURE, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
To every land beneath the skies,
Counts nothing that she meets with
base,

But lives and loves in every place ;

II.

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 ;

III.

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.'

IV.

And murmurs of a deeper voice,

Going before to some far shrine, Teach that sick heart the stronger choice, Till all thy life one way incline With one wide Will that closes thine.