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Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream For now I see the true old times are dead, by these

When every morning brought a noble Three queens with crowns of gold - and

chance, from them rose

And every chance brought out a noble A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,

knight. And, as it were one voice, an agony Such times have been not since the light Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills

that led All night in a waste land, where no one The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. comes,

But now the whole ROUND TABLE is disOr hath come, since the making of the

solved world.

Which was an image of the mighty world; Then murmur'd Arthur, "Place me And I, the last, go forth companionless, in the barge,”

And the days darken around me, and the And to the barge they came. There

years, those three queens

Among new men, strange faces, other Put forth their hands, and took the king,

minds." and wept.

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the But she that rose the tallest of them all

barge: And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, "The old order changeth, yielding place And loosed the shatter'd casque, and

to new, chafed his hands,

And God fulfils himself in many ways, And call’d him by his name, complaining Lest one good custom should corrupt the loud,

world. And dropping bitter tears against his Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me? brow

I have lived my life, and that which I Striped with dark blood; for all his face

have done was white

May He within himself make pure! but And colourless, and like the wither'd moon

thou, Smote by the fresh beam of the springing If thou shouldst never see my face again, east;

Pray for my soul. More things are And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd wrought by prayer with drops

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, Of onset; and the light and lustrous let thy voice curls

Rise like a fountain for me night and day. That made his forehead like a rising sun For what are men better than sheep or High from the dais-throne were parch’d

goats with dust;

That nourish a blind life within the brain, Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of Mix'd with the knightly growth that

prayer fringed his lips.

Both for themselves and those who call So like a shatter'd column lay the king;

them friend? Not like that Arthur who, with lance in For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of From spur to plume a star of tournament,

God. Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and But now farewell. I am going a long way charged

With these thou seest if indeed I go Before the


of ladies and of kings. For all my mind is clouded with a doubt Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: To the island-valley of Avilion ; "Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, go?

Nor ever wind blows loudly, but it lies Where shall I hide my forehead and my Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard eyes?



on life


And bowery hollows crown'd with summer As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled

sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous Were all too little, and of one to me wound.”

Little remains; but every hour is saved So said he, and the barge with oar and From that eternal silence, something sail

more, Moved from the brink, like some full- A bringer of new things: and vile it were breasted swan

For some three suns to store and hoard That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, myself, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes And this gray spirit yearning in desire the flood

To follow knowledge like a sinking star, With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Beyond the utmost bound of human Bedivere

thought. Revolving many memories, till the hull This is my son, mine own Telemachus, Look'd one black dot against the verge To whom I leave the sceptre and the

of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away. Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make ULYSSES


A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees It little profits that an idle king,

Subdue them to the useful and the good. By this still hearth, among these barren Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere crags,

Of common duties decent, not to fail Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and In offices of tenderness, and pay dole

Meet adoration to my household gods, Unequal laws unto a savage race,

When I am gone. He works his work, I That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and

mine. know not me. I cannot rest from travel; I will drink There lies the port; the vessel puffs her Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd sail; Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with There gloom the dark broad seas. My those

mariners, That loved me, and alone; on shore, and Souls that have toil'd and wrought, and when

thought with me, Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades That ever with a frolic welcome took Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;

The thunder and the sunshine, and opFor always roaming with a hungry heart posed Much have I seen and known, - cities of Free hearts, free foreheads, — you and I

are old; And manners, climates, councils, govern- Old age hath yet his honour and his toil. ments,

Death closes all; but something ere the Myself not least, but honour'd of them

end, all,

Some work of noble note, may yet be And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

done, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. Not unbecoming men that strove with I am a part of all that I have met;

Gods. Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; Gleams that untravell’d world whose The long day wanes; the slow moon margin fades

climbs; the deep For ever and for ever when I move. Moans round with many voices. Come, How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.


my friends

Push off, and sitting well in order smite Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
The sounding furrows; for my purpose

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast, To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Father will come to thee soon; Of all the western stars, until I die.

Father will come to his babe in the nest, It

may be that the gulf will wash us down; Silver sails all out of the west It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, Under the silver moon; And see the great Achilles whom we knew. Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty Tho'much is taken, much abides; and tho'

one, sleep. We are not now that strength which in

old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we

The splendour falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story; are, we are, One equal temper of heroic hearts,

The long light shakes across the lakes, Made weak by time and fate, but strong

And the wild cataract leaps in glory. in will

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying,

dying, dying. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK BREAK, break, break,

0, hark, O, hear! how thin and clear, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !

And thinner, clearer, farther going ! And I would that my tongue could utter

O, sweet and far from cliff and scar The thoughts that arise in me.

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replyO, well for the fisherman's boy,

ing, That he shouts with his sister at play! Blow, bugle;, answer, echoes, dying, O, well for the sailor lad,

dying, dying. That he sings in his boat on the bay!

O love, they die in yon rich sky, And the stately ships go on

They faint on hill or field or river; To their haven under the hill ;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
But 0 for the touch of a vanish'd hand,


for ever and for ever. And the sound of a voice that is still ! Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes

flying, Break, break, break,

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dyAt the foot of thy crags, O Sea !

ing, dying.
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.


A. H. H.

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

STRONG Son of God, immortal Love, Wind of the western sea,

Whom we, that have not seen thy face, Low, low, breathe and blow,

By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Wind of the western sea !

Believing where we cannot prove; Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Blow him again to me:

Thou madest Life in man and brute; While my

little while my pretty one, Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot sleeps.

Is on the skull which thou hast made.


Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:

Thou madest man, he knows not why,

He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him : thou art just.

“The stars," she whispers, “blindly run;

A web is woven across the sky;

From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun;

Thou seemest human and divine,

“And all the phantom, Nature, stands – The highest, holiest manhood, thou.

With all the music in her tone,
Our wills are ours, we know not how;

A hollow echo of my own,
Our wills are ours, to make them thine. A hollow form with empty hands.”
Our little systems have their day;

And shall I take a thing so blind,
They have their day and cease to be;

Embrace her as my natural good; They are but broken lights of thee,

Or crush her, like a vice of blood, And thou, O Lord, art more than they. Upon the threshold of the mind?




We have but faith: we cannot know,

For knowledge is of things we see; O, yet we trust that somehow good

And yet we trust it comes from thee, Will be the final goal of ill, A beam in darkness : let it grow.

To pangs of nature, sins of will,

Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; Let knowledge grow from more to more,

But more of reverence in us dwell; That nothing walks with aimless feet;

That mind and soul, according well, That not one life shall be destroy'd, May make one music as before,

Or cast as rubbish to the void,

When God hath made the pile complete; But vaster. We are fools and slight;

We mock thee when we do not fear : That not a worm is cloven in vain ;
But help thy foolish ones to bear;

That not a moth with vain desire
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light. Is shrivell’d in a fruitless fire,

Or but subserves another's gain.
Forgive what seem'd my sin in me,

What seem'd my worth since I began; Behold, we know not anything ;
For merit lives from man to man,

I can but trust that good shall fall And not from man, O Lord, to thee.

At last far off at last, to all,

And every winter change to spring.
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.

So runs my dream; but what am I?
I trust he lives in thee, and there

An infant crying in the night; I find him worthier to be loved.

An infant crying for the light,

And with no language but a cry.
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;

Forgive them where they fail in truth, The wish, that of the living whole
And in thy wisdom make me wise.

No life may fail beyond the grave,

Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul?


O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,

O Priestess in the vaults of Death,

O sweet and bitter in a breath, What whispers from thy lying lip?

Are God and Nature then at strife,

That Nature lends such evil dreams?

So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life,

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