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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,
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, 140
But cruel is she!
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.”



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

For the wheel where I spun,
And the blessèd 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 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.



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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

rest, shame?

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?

lateListen, Eugenia

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.

reaped field,

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



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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

to stray,


i fireside bench.

? small, flat-bottomed boat.

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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

wast gone.

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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

ing kine;

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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!

in hope.

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

willed, souls,

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,

been fulfilled;

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

fed, age,

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

end, powers

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.



1 sorrow.

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