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Through the narrow paved streets, where
all was still, To the little gray church on the windy
Come away, away, children; Come, children, come down! The hoarse wind blows colder; Lights shine in the town. She will start from her slumber When gusts shake the door; She will hear the winds howling, Will hear the waves roar. We shall see, while above us The waves roar and whirl, A ceiling of amber, A pavement of pearl. Singing: “Here came a mortal, But faithless was she! And alone dwell for ever The kings of the sea.”
From the church came a murmur of folk
at their prayers, But we stood without in the cold blowing
airs. We climbed on the graves, on the stones
worn with rains, And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.
75 She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are
here! Dear heart," I said, "we are long alone; The sea grows stormy, the little ones
moan.” But, ah, she gave me never a look, For her eyes were sealed to the holy
book! Loud prays the priest; shut stands the
door. Come away, children, call no more! Come away, come down, call no more!
But, children, at midnight,
Down, down, down! Down to the depths of the sea! She sits at her wheel in the humming
town, Singing most joyfully. Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, For the humming street, and the child with its toy!
90 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy
sand, And over the sand at the sea; And her eyes are set in a stare; 100 And anon there breaks a sigh, And anon there drops a tear, From a sorrow-clouded eye, And a heart sorrow-laden; A long, long sigh
105 For the cold strange eyes of a little Mer
maiden And the gleam of her golden hair.
And can this fragrant lawn
THE SCHOLAR-GIPSY With its cool trees, and night, And the sweet, tranquil Thames, Go, for they call you, shepherd, from the And moonshine, and the dew,
hill; To thy racked heart and brain
Go, shepherd, and untie the wattled? Afford no balm?
No longer leave thy wistful flock unDost thou to-night behold Here, through the moonlight on this Nor let thy bawling fellows rack their English grass,
throats, The unfriendly palace in the Thracian Nor the cropped herbage shoot wild?
another head. Dost thou again peruse
But when the fields are still, With hot cheeks and seared eyes 20 And the tired men and dogs all gone to The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's
And only the white sheep are someDost thou once more assay
times seen Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Cross and recross the strips of Poor fugitive, the feathery change
moonblanched green, Once more, and once more seem to make Come, shepherd, and again begin the resound
10 With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian Here, where the reaper was at work of vale?
In this high field's dark corner, where he How thick the bursts come crowding
leaves through the leaves!
His coat, his basket, and his Again-thou hearest?
earthen cruse, Eternal passion!
And in the sun all morning binds the Eternal pain!
sheaves, Then here, at noon, comes back his stores to use
Here will I sit and wait,
While to my ear from uplands far
away Strew on her roses, roses,
The bleating of the folded flocks is And never a spray of yew!
borne, In quiet she reposes;
With distant cries of reapers in the Ah, would that I did too!
All the live murmur of a summer's Her mirth the world required;
day. She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired,
Screened is this nook o'er the high, haliAnd now they let her be.
And here till sun-down, shepherd, will Her life was turning, turning,
I be. In mazes of heat and sound; 10 Through the thick corn the scarlet But for peace her soul was yearning,
poppies peep, And now peace laps her round. And round green roots and yellowing
stalks I see Her cabined, ample spirit,
Pale blue convolvulus in tendrils It fluttered and failed for breath;
creep; To-night it doth inherit
And air-swept lindens yield The vasty hall of death.
I made of interwoven twigs or branches.
Their scent, and rustle down their per
heir scent, med showernt grass
Of bloom on the bent grass where I
am laid, And bower me from the August sun
with shade; And the eye travels down to Oxford's towers.
Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and
tongue-tied, In hat of antique shape, and cloak of gray,
55 The same the gipsies wore. Shepherds had met him on the Hurst
in spring; At some lone alehouse in the Berk
shire moors, On the warm ingle-bench,' the smock
frocked boors Had found him seated at their enter
But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he
would fly. And I myself seem half to know thy
looks, And put the shepherds, wanderer, on
thy trace; · And boys who in lone wheat fields scare
the rooks I ask if thou hast passed their quiet place;
65 Or in my boat I lie Moored to the cool bank in the summer
heats, ’Mid wide grass meadows which the
sunshine fills, And watch the warm, green-muffled
Cumner hills, And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy retreats.
But once, years after, in the country
lanes, Two scholars, whom at college erst he
knew, Met him, and of his way of life in
quired; Whereat he answered, that the gipsy
crew, His mates, had arts to rule as they desired
45 The workings of men's brains, And they can bind them to what
thoughts they will. “And I,” he said, "the secret of their
art, When fully learned, will to the world
impart; But it needs heaven-sent moments for this skill."
For most, I know, thou lov'st retired
ground! Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, Returning home on summer-nights,
have met Crossing the stripling Thames at Bab
lock-hithe, Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers wet,
75 As the punt's? rope chops round: And leaning backward in a pensive
dream, And fostering in thy lap a heap of
flowers Plucked in shy fields and distant
Wychwood bowers, And thine eyes resting on the moonlit
This said, he left them, and returned no
more. But rumors hung about the country
side, That the lost Scholar long was seen
i fireside bench.
? small, flat-bottomed boat.
And then they land, and thou art seen no
more. Maidens, who from the distant hamlets
come To dance around the Fyfield elm in
May, Oft through the darkening fields have
seen thee roam, Or cross a stile into the public way.
85 Oft thou hast given them store Of flowers—the frail-leafed, white anem
one, Dark bluebells drenched with dews of
summer eves, And purple orchises with spotted
leavesBut none hath words she can report of thee.
90 And, above Godstow Bridge, when hay
time's here In June, and many a scythe in sunshine
flames, Men who through those wide fields of
breezy grass Where black-winged swallows haunt
the glittering Thames, To bathe in the abandoned lasher pass,
95 Have often passed thee near, Sitting upon the river bank o'ergrown; Marked thine outlandish garb, thy
figure spare, Thy dark vague eyes, and soft ab
stracted airBut, when they came from bathing, thou
But what, I dream! Two hundred years
are flown Since first thy story ran through Oxford
halls, And the grave Glanvil did the tale
inscribe That thou wert wandered from the
studious walls To learn strange arts, and join a gipsy-tribe;
135 And thou from earth art gone
The springing pastures and the feed
Long since, and in some quiet church Which much to have tried, in much yard laid
been baffled, brings. 165 Some country-nook, where o'er thy O life unlike to ours! unknown grave
Who fluctuate idly without term or Tall grasses and white flowering
scope, nettles wave,
Of whom each strives, nor knows for Under a dark, red-fruited yew-tree's
what he strives, shade.
140 And each half lives a hundred differ
ent lives; -No, no, thou hast not felt the lapse of Who wait like thee, but not, like thee, hours!
170 For what wears out the life of mortal men?
Thou waitest for the spark from heaven: 'Tis that from change to change
and we, their being rolls;
Light half-believers of our casual creeds, 'Tis that repeated shocks, again, again, Who never deeply felt, nor clearly Exhaust the energy of strongest
145 Whose insight never has borne fruit in And numb the elastic powers
deeds, Till having used our nerves with bliss Whose vague resolves never have and teen,
175 And tired upon a thousand schemes
For whom each year we see our wit,
Breeds new beginnings, disappointTo the just-pausing Genius we remit
ments new; Our worn-out life, and are what we Who hesitate and falter life away, have been. .
And lose to-morrow the ground won
to-dayThou hast not lived, why should'st thou Ah, do not we, wanderer, await it too?
perish, so? Thou had'st one aim, one business, one Yes, we await it, but it still delays, 181 desire;
And then we suffer; and amongst us one, Else wert thou long since numbered Who most has suffered, takes dejectwith the dead,
edly Else hadst thou spent, like other men, His seat upon the intellectual throne; thy fire,
And all his store of sad experience he The generations of thy peers are Lays bare of wretched days; 186 fled,
155 Tells us his misery's birth and growth And we ourselves shall go;
and signs, But thou possessest an immortal lot, And how the dying spark of hope was And we imagine thee exempt from
And how the breast was soothed, and And living as thou liv'st on Glan
how the head, vil's page,
And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 Because thou hadst-what we, alas! have not.
This for our wisest! and we others pine,
And wish the long unhappy dream would For early didst thou leave the world, with
And waive all claim to bliss, and try Fresh, undiverted to the world without,
to bear; Firm to their mark, not spent on With close-lipped patience for our only other things;
friend, Free from the sick fatigue, the languid Sad patience, too near neighbor to doubt,
despairBut none has hope like thine.