Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 415
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seëst if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) —
To the island-valley of Avilion ;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.'

420

425

430

So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull

435

Look'd one black dot against the verge of dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.

440

But when that moan had past for evermore,
The stillness of the dead world's winter dawn
Amazed him, and he groan'd, The King is gone.'
And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme,
'From the great deep to the great deep he goes.'

445

Whereat he slowly turn'd and slowly clomb

The last hard footstep of that iron crag;

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.

BREAK, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

O well for the fisherman's boy,

That he shouts with his sister at play! O well for the sailor lad,

That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill;

But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!

5

10

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

15

THE BROOK.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern.
I make a sudden sally

And sparkle out among the fern,

To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,

Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

5

5

CROSSING THE BAR.

SUNSET and evening star,

And one clear call for me!

And may there be no moaning of the bar,

When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,

Too full for sound and foam,

When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark!

And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark;

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place,

The flood may bear me far,

I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crost the bar.

ΤΟ

FROM MILTON TO TENNYSON

MASTERPIECES OF ENGLISH POETRY

BY

L. DUPONT SYLE, M.A. (YALE)

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA