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And the blessed light of the sun!”
And so she sings her fill,
Singing most joyfully,
Till the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the

sand,
And over the sand at the sea;
And her eyes are set in a stare;

100 And anon there breaks a sigh, And anou there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden, A long, long sigh, For the cold strange eyes of a little mer

maiden, And the gleam of her golden hair.

PHILOMELA

(Publ. 1863] HARK ! ah, the nightingale The tawny-throated ! Hark! from that moonlit cedar what a

burst!
What triumph I hark ! what pain !
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lands,
Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain
That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, old-

world pain.
Say, will it never heal ?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm ?

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Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this Eng-

lish grass. The unfriendly palace in the Thracian

wild ? Dost thou again peruse With hot cheeks and seared eyes The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's

shame ? Dost thou once more assay Thy flight, and feel come over thee, Poor fugitive, the feathery change Once more, and once more seem to make

resound
With love and hate, triumph and agony,
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ?
Listen, Eugenia, —
How thick the bursts come crowding

through the leaves !
Again — thou hearest ?
Eternal passion!
Eternal pain !

130

Biit, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starred with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie,
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white sleeping town;
At the church on the hill-side,
And then come back down,
Singing, “ There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she !
She left lonely forever
The kings of the sea."

DOVER BEACH

[Publ. 1853] TAE sea is calm to-night. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast, the

light

10

Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England | Let the long contention cease! stand,

Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil Let them have it how they will! bay.

Thou art tired: best be still. Come to the window, sweet is the nightair!

They out-talked thee, bissed thee, tore thee? Only, from the long line of spray

Better men fared thus before thee; 10 Where the sea meets the moon-blanched Fired their ringing shot, and passed, sand,

Hotly charged — and savk at last.
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
and Aing,

Let the victors, when they come,
At their return, up the high strand, When the forts of folly fall,
Begin and cease, and then again begin, Find thy body by the wall!
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

MORALITY
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought We cannot kindle when we will
Into bis mind the turbid ebb and flow The fire which in the heart resides;
Of human misery: we

The spirit bloweth and is still,
Find also in the sound a thought,

In inystery our soul abides.
Hearing it by this distant northern sea. 20 But tasks in hours of insight willed

Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.
The sea of faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's With aching bands and bleeding feet
shore

We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. We bear the burden and the heat
But now I only hear

Of the long day, and wish 't were done. 10 Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Not till the hours of light return, Retreating, to the breath

All we have built do we discern. Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear

Then, when the clouds are off the soul, And naked shingles of the world.

When thou dost bask in Nature's eye,

Ask how she viewed thy self-control, Ah, love, let us be true

Thy struggling, tasked morality, To one another ! for the world, which seems Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, To lie before us like a land of dreams, 31 Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor And she, whose censure thou dost dread, light,

Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, 20 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for See, on her face a glow is spread,

A strong emotion on her cheek! And we are here as on a darkling plain

“Ah, child!”sbe cries,“that strife divine, Swept with confused alarms of struggle Whence was it, for it is not mine?

and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. “There is no effort on my brow;

I do not strive, I do not weep:

I rush with the swift spheres, and glow THE LAST WORD

In joy, and when I will, I sleep.

Yet that severe, that earnest air,
CREEP into thy narrow bed, -

I saw, I felt it once — but where ? 30
Creep, and let no more be said.
Vain thy onset ! all stands fast.

“I knew not yet the gauge of time,
Thou thyself must break at last. Nor wore the manacles of space;

pain;

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I felt it in some other clime,

Their lives to some unmeaning task-work I saw it in some other place.

give, 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod, Dreaming of naught beyond their prisonAnd lay upon the breast of God.”

wall.
And as, year after year,

Fresh products of their barren labor fall
A SUMMER NIGHT

From their tired bands, and rest

Never yet comes more near, [Publ. 1852]

Gloom settles slowly down over their

breast. In the deserted, moon-blanched street, And while they try to stem How lonely rings the echo of my feet! The waves of mournful thought by which Those windows which I gaze at, frown,

they are prest, Silent and white, unopening down,

Death in their prison reaches them, Repellent as the world; but see,

Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unblest. A break between the housetops shows The moon! and lost behind her, fading dim And the rest, a few, Into the dewy dark obscurity

Escape their prison, and depart Down at the far horizon's rim,

On the wide ocean of life anew. Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose! 10 | There the freed prisoner, where'er his heart

Listeth, will sail; And to my mind the thought

Nor doth he know how there prevail, Is on a sudden brought

Despotic on that sea, Of a past night, and a far different scene. Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep Awhile he holds some false way, undebarred As clearly as at noon;

By thwarting signs, and braves The spring-tide's brimming flow

The freshening wind and blackening waves. Heaved dazzlingly between;

And then the tempest strikes him; and beHouses, with long white sweep,

tween Girdled the glistening bay;

The lightning-bursts is seen Behind, through the soft air,

Only a driving wreck, The blue haze-cradled mountains spread And the pale master on his spar-strewn deck away.

With anguished face and flying hair, That night was far more fair

Grasping the rudder hard, But the same restless pacings to and fro Still bent to make some port, he knows not And the same vainly throbbing heart was where, there,

Still standing for some false, impossible And the same bright, calm moon.

And sterner comes the roar And the calm moonlight seems to say, — Of sea and wind; and through the deepenHast thou, then, still the old unquiet breast,

ing gloom Which neither deadens into rest,

Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman Nor ever feels the fiery glow

loom, That whirls the spirit from itself away, 30 And he too disappears, and comes no more. But fluctuates to and fro, Never by passion quite possessed,

Is there no life, but these alone ? And never quite benumbed by the world's sway? | Madman or slave, must man be one ? And I, I know not if to pray Still to be what I am, or yield, and be Plainness and clearness without shadow of Like all the other men I see.

stain!

Clearness divine! For most men in a brazen prison live, Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have Where, in the sun's hot eye,

no sign With heads bent o’er their toil, they lan- of languor, though so calm, and though so guidly

great

20

shore.

70

Ah! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchained;
For that which seals them hath been deep-

ordained !

30

Are yet untroubled and unpassionate; 80 Who, though so noble, share in the world's

toil, And, though so tasked, keep free from dust

and soil! I will not say that your mild deeps retain A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain Who have longed deeply once, and longed

in vain; But I will rather say that you remain A world above man's head, to let him see How boundless might his soul's horizons be, How vast, yet of what clear transparency! How it were good to live there, and breathe

free; How fair a lot to fill Is left to each man still !

Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be, —
By what distractions he would be possessed,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity, -
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our

breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; 40
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.

THE BURIED LIFE

[Publ. 1853]

LIGHT flows our war of mocking words; and

yet, Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, We know, we know that we can smile! But there's a something in this breast, To which thy light words bring no rest, And thy gay smiles no anodyne; Give me thy hand, and hush a while, And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 10 And let me read there, love! thy inmost

soul.

Alas! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak ?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel ?
I knew the mass of men concealed
Their thoughts, for fear that if revealed
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with blame re-

proved;
I knew they lived and moved

20 Tricked in disguises, alien to the rest Of men, and alien to themselves - and yet The same heart beats in every human

breast!

But often, in the world's most crowded

streets, But often, in the din of strife, There rises an unspeakable desire After the knowledge of our buried life; A thirst to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course; 50 A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us, – to know Whence our lives come, and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then

delves, But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and

power; But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves,

60 Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through

our breast, But they course on forever unexpressed. And long we try in vain to speak and act Onr hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well — but 't is not true! And then we will no more be racked With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour

Their stupefying power; | Ah, yes, and they benumb us at our call !

But we, my love! doth a like spell benumb Our hearts, our voices ? must we too be

dumb ?

70

Yet still, from time to time, vague and for Sometimes a thrush flit overhead lorn,

Deep in her unknown day's employ. From the soul's subterranean depth upborne

Here at my feet what wonders pass! As from an infinitely distant land,

What endless, active life is here ! Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey What blowing daisies, fragrant grass ! A melancholy into all our day.

Au air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. Only - but tbis is rare

Scarce fresher is the mountain sod When a beloved hand is laid in ours, Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, When, jaded with the rush and glare And, eased of basket and of rod, Of the interminable hours,

So Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 20 Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafened ear

In the huge world which roars hard by, Is by the tones of a loved voice caressed, - Be others happy if they can! A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, But in my helpless cradle I And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. Was breathed on by the rural Pan. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain,

I, on men's impious uproar hurled, And what we mean, we say, and what we Think often, as I hear them rave, would, we know.

That peace has left the upper world,

And now keeps only in the grave.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur, and he sees Yet bere is peace forever new !
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the | When I who watch them am away,
breeze,

Still all things in this glade go through

The changes of their quiet day.
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth forever chase

Then to their happy rest they pass;
The flying and elusive shadow, rest.

The flowers upclose, the birds are fed, An air of coolness plays upon his face, The night comes down upon the grass, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast; | The child sleeps warmly in his bed. And then he thinks he knows The bills where his life rose,

Calm soul of all things ! make it mine
And the sea where it goes.

To feel, amid the city's jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,

Man did not make, and cannot mar.
LINES WRITTEN IN KENSING-
TON GARDENS

The will to neither strive nor cry,

The power to feel with others, give ! [Publ. 1852)

Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die

Before I have begun to live.
In this lone, open glade I lie,
Screened by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,

THE FUTURE
Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees
stand.

A WANDERER is man from his birth.

He was born in a sbip
Birds here make song, each bird has his, On the breast of the river of Time;
Across the girdling city's hum.

Brimming with wonder and joy,
How green under the boughs it is!

He spreads out his arms to the light, How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come! | Rivets his gaze on the banks of the stream.

90

Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;

As what he sees is, so bave his thoughts been. 10 l Whether he wakes

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