It is his darling passion to approve; 'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high 65 71 Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former worth stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, 75 From well to better, daily self-surpassed: Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth For ever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead unprofitable name, 80 Finds comfort in himself and in his cause; And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy Warrior; this is he Whom every man in arms should wish to A six years' darling of a pigmy size! 85 And custom lie upon thee with a weight, See, where 'mid work of his own hand he Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 90 Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learnèd art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, To dialogues of business, love, or strife; Ere this be thrown aside, And with new joy and pride 95 100 The little actor cons another part; Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; 140 But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realised, 145 High instincts before which our mortal nature And let the young lambs bound 175 Be now forever taken from my sight, hour Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Those quivering wings composed, that Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 10 Strength in what remains behind; 180 Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; In the primal sympathy True to the kindred points of Heaven and Which having been must ever be; 184 SONNETS In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. XI ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN REPUBLIC Once did she hold the gorgeous east in fee; And O ye fountains, meadows, hills, and And was the safeguard of the west: the groves, worth Forebode not any severing of our loves! Of Venice did not fall below her birth, Milton! thou should'st be living at this England hath need of thee: she is a fen If thou appear untouched by solemn thought, ΙΟ Thy nature is not therefore less divine: Have forfeited their ancient English Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; 5 Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER Earth has not anything to show more Dull would he be of soul who could pass by year; And worship'st at the temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH The world is too much with us: late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our Little we see in Nature that is ours; This Sea that bares her bosom to the The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not.-Great God! I'd rather be Open unto the fields, and to the sky; A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; |