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"discordance that can accord ; And accordance to discord."


A ROSE Once passed within
A garden April-green,
In her loneness, in her loneness,
And the fairer for that oneness.

A white rose, delicate,

On a tall bough and straight,—
Early comer, April comer,
Never waiting for the summer;

Whose pretty gates did win
South winds to let her in,
In her loneness, in her loneness,
All the fairer for that oneness.

"For if I wait," said she,
"Till times for roses be,-

For the musk rose, and the moss rose,
Royal red and maiden blush rose,—

"What glory then for me,
In such a company?
Roses plenty, roses plenty,
And one nightingale for twenty!

"Nay, let me in," said she,
"Before the rest are free,
In my loneness, in my loneness,
All the fairer for that oneness.

"For I would lonely stand, Uplifting my white hand, On a mission, on a mission, To declare the coming vision.

"See mine, a holy heart, To high ends set apart,― All unmated, all unmated, Because so consecrated.

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Upon which lifted sign,

What worship will be mine!

What addressing, what caressing,
What thanks and praise and blessing!

"A wind-like joy will rush
Through every tree and bush,
Bending softly in affection,
And spontaneous benediction.

"Insects, that only may
Live in a sunbright ray,

To my whiteness, to my whiteness
Shall be drawn, as to a brightness.

"And every moth and bee
Shall near me reverently,
Wheeling round me, wheeling o'er me
Coronals of motion'd glory.

"I ween the very

Will look down in surprise,
When low on earth they see me,
With my cloudy aspect dreamy.

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"Ten nightingales shall flee Their woods, for love of me,— Singing sadly all the suntide, Never waiting for the moontide!

"Three larks shall leave a cloud, To my whiter beauty vow'd,Singing gladly all the moontide, Never waiting for the suntide."

So praying did she win

South winds to let her in,
In her loneness, in her loneness,
And the fairer for that oneness.

But out, alas for her!
No thing did minister
To her praises, to her praises,
More than might unto a daisy's.

No tree nor bush was seen
To boast a perfect green,
Scarcely having, scarcely having
One leaf broad enow for waving.

The little flies did crawl
Along the southern wall,
Faintly shifting, faintly shifting
Wings scarce strong enow for lifting.

The nightingale did please
To loiter beyond seas.
Guess him in the happy islands,
Learning music from the silence.

The lark, too high or low,
Did haply miss her so-
With his nest down in the gorses,
And his song in the star-courses!

Only the bee, forsooth,

Came in the place of both-
Doing honour, doing honour
To the honey-dews upon her.

The skies looked coldly down
As on a royal crown;
Then, drop by drop, at leisure,
Began to rain for pleasure;

Whereat the earth did seem
To waken from a dream;
Winter frozen, winter frozen,
Her unquiet eyes unclosing—

Said to the rose, «Ha, Snow!
And art thou fallen so?
Thou who wert enthronéd stately
Along my mountains lately!

"Holla, thou world-wide snow
And art thou wasted so?
With a little bough to catch thee,
And a little bee to watch thee!"

Poor rose, to be unknown!


Would she had ne'er been blown, In her loneness, in her loneness, All the sadder for that oneness.

Some word she tried to say,

Some sigh-ah, wellaway!
But the passion did o'ercome her,

And the fair frail leaves dropp'd from her

Dropp'd from her, fair and mute,
Close to a poet's foot,

Who beheld them, smiling lowly
As at something sad yet holy:

Said, "Verily and thus

So chanceth eke with us,
Poets, singing sweetest snatches,
While deaf men keep the watches-

"Vaunting to come before

Our own age evermore,
In a loneness, in a loneness,
And the nobler for that oneness!

"But if alone we be,
Where is our empiry?

And if none can reach our stature,
Who will mate our lofty nature?
"What bell will yield a tone,
Saving in the air alone?

If no brazen clapper bringing,
Who can bear the chimed ringing?

"What angel but would seem
To sensual eyes glint-dim?
And without assimilation,
Vain is interpenetration!

"Alas! what can we do,
The rose and poet too,

Who both antedate our mission
In an unprepared season?

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Drop, leaf-be silent, song-
Cold things we came among!

We must warm them, we must warm them,
Ere we ever hope to charm them.

"Howbeit,"-here his face
Lightened around the place,
So to mark the outward turning
Of his spirit's inward burning-

"Something it is to hold
In God's worlds manifold,
First reveal'd to creatures' duty,
A new form of His mild beauty;

"Whether that form respect
The sense or intellect,
Holy rest in soul or pleasance,

The chief Beauty's sign of presence.

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My little doves have left a nest
Upon an Indian tree,

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest

Or motion from the sea:
For ever there, the sea-winds go
With sunlit paces, to and fro.

The tropic flowers look'd up to it,
The tropic stars look'd down:
And there my little doves did sit,

With feathers softly brown,
And glittering eyes, that show'd their right
To general nature's deep delight.

And God them taught, at every close

Of water far, and wind,
And lifted leaf, to interpose

Their chanting voices kind;
Interpreting that love must be
The meaning of the earth and sea.
Fit ministers! Of living loves,

Their's hath the calmest sound-
Their living voice the likest moves
To lifeless noises round-
In such sweet monotone as clings
To music of insensate things!

My little doves were ta'en away
From that glad nest of theirs,
Across an ocean foaming aye,
And tempest-clouded airs.

My little doves!-who lately knew
The sky and wave, by warmth and blue!
And now, within the city prison,

In mist and chillness pent,
With sudden upward look they listen
For sounds of past content-
For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees.

The stir without the glow of passion-
The triumph of the mart-
The gold and silver's dreary clashing
With man's metallic heart-

The wheeled pomp, the pauper tread-
These only sounds are heard, instead.

Yet still, as on my human hand

Their fearless heads they lean, And almost seem to understand

What human musings mean(With such a plaintive gaze their eyne Are fasten'd upwardly to mine!)

Their chant is soft as in the nest,
Beneath the sunny sky:

For love, that stirr'd it in their breast,
Remains undyingly,

And, 'neath the city's shade, can keep
The well of music clear and deep.

And love, that keeps the music, fills
With pastoral memories :
All echoings from out the hills,

All droppings from the skies,
All flowings from the wave and wind,
Remember'd in their chant I find.

So teach ye me the wisest part,
My little doves! to move
Along the city ways, with heart
Assured by holy love,

And vocal with such songs as own
A fountain to the world unknown.

"T was hard to sing by Babel's stream-
More hard in Babel's street!
But if the soulless creatures deem

Their music not unmeet
For sunless walls-let us begin,
Who wear immortal wings, within!

To me, fair memories belong

Of scenes that erst did bless; For no regret-but present song, And lasting thankfulnessAnd very soon to break away,

Like types, in purer things than they!

I will have hopes that cannot fade,
For flowers the valley yields-

I will have humble thoughts, instead
Of silent, dewy fields!

My spirit and my God shall be
My seaward hill, my boundless sea!

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All little birds do sit

With heads beneath their wings-
Nature doth seem in a mystic dream,
Apart from her living things.
That dream by that ladyè

I ween is unpartook ;

For she looketh to the high cold stars,
With a tender human look!
Margret, Margret

The ladye's shadow lies
Upon the running river,—

It lieth no less, in its quietness,
For that which resteth never;
Most like a trusting heart

Upon a passing faith,—
Or as, upon the course of life,
The steadfast doom of death!
Margret, Margret!

The ladye doth not move

The ladye doth not dream

Yet she seeth her shade no longer laid

In rest upon the stream!

It shaketh without wind

It parteth from the tide

It standeth upright, in the cleft moonlightIt sitteth at her side!

Margret, Margret !

Look in its face, ladyè,

And keep thee from thy swound! With a spirit bold thy pulses hold,

And hear its voice's sound!

For so will sound thy voice,
When thy face is to the wall,—
And such will be thy face, ladyè,

When the maidens work thy pall-
Margret, Margret!

"Am I not like to thee?"—

The voice was calm and low

And between each word there seeméd heard The universe's flow!

"The like may sway the like!

By which mysterious law,

Mine eyes from thine, my lips from thine, The light and breath may draw, Margret, Margret !

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My lips do need thy breath,

My lips do need thy smile,

And my pale deep eyne, that light in thine Which met the stars erewhile.

Yet go, with light and life

If that thou lovest one,

In all the earth, who loveth thee
More truly than the sun,
Margret, Margret !"

Her cheek had waxed white
As cloud at fall of snow;
Then, like to one at set of sun,
It waxéd red also!-

For love's name maketh bold,

As if the loved were near:

And sighed she the deep long sigh
Which cometh after fear.
Margret, Margret!

"Now, sooth, I fear thee not-
Shall never fear thee now !"

(And a noble sight was the sudden light

Which lit her lifted brow!) "Can earth be dry of streams,

Or hearts of love ?"-she said;

"Who doubteth love, can know not love,He is already dead!"

Margret, Margret!

"I have"-and here her lips

Some word in pause did keep;

And gave, the while, a quiet smile,

As if they paused in sleep!

"I have a brother dear,
A knight of knightly fame;

I broider'd him a knightly scarf
With letters of my name."
Margret, Margret!

"I fed his gray goss-hawk,

I kissed his fierce bloodhound,

I sate at home when he might come, And caught his horn's far sound:

I sang him songs of eld,

I pour'd him the red wine,

He looked from the cup, and said,
I love thee, sister mine!"
Margret, Margret!

IT trembled on the grass,

With a low, shadowy laughter!

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"I gave her my first bird,

When first my voice it knew—
I made her share my posies rare,
And told her where they grew.
I taught her God's dear name-

God's worthy praise to tell :-
She look'd from heaven into my face,
And said, I love thee well!"
Margret, Margret!

IT trembled on the grass,

With a low, shadowy laughter

You could see each bird, as it woke, and stared Through the shrivell'd tree-leaves, after!"Fair child thy sister is!

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Margret, Margret!

"Though louder beats mine heart,

I know his tread again;

And his far plume aye,-unless turned away, For tears do blind me, then!

We brake no gold, a sign

Of stronger faith to be;

But I wear his last look in my soul,
Which said, I love but thee !"
Margret, Margret!

IT trembled on the grass,

With a low shadowy laughterThe wind did toll, as a passing soul Were sped by church-bell, after ! And shadows, 'stead of light,

Fell from the stars above,

In flakes of darkness on her face,
Still bright with trusting love!
Margret, Margret!

"He loved none but thee!

That love is transient too.
The wild hawk's bill doth dabble still
I' the mouth that vowed the true.
Will he open his dull eyes,

When tears fall on his brow?
Behold! the death-worm to his heart
Is a nearer thing than thou!"
Margret, Margret!

Her face was on the ground

None saw the agony !

But the men at sea did that night agree
They heard a drowning cry.

And, when the morning brake,
Fast roll'd the river's tide,

With the green trees waving overhead,
And a white corse lain beside.
Margret, Margret!

A knight's bloodhound and he

The funeral watch did keep

With a thought o' the chase he stroked its face, As it howl'd to see him weep.

A fair child kiss'd the dead,

But shrank before the cold;

And alone, yet proudly, in his hall
Did stand a baron old.

Margret, Margret!

Hang up my harp again

I have no voice for song!

Not song, but wail-and mourners pale,

Not bards-to love belong!
Oh, failing human love!

Oh, light by darkness known!

Oh, false, the while thou treadest earth! Oh, deaf, beneath the stone!

Margret, Margret!

Nay, friends! no name but His,
Whose name as Love appears!
Look up to heaven, as God's forgiven,
And see it not for tears!
Yet see, with spirit-sight,

Th' eternal Friend undim,
Who died for love, and joins above
All friends who love in Him—
And with His piercéd hands may He
The guardian of your clasp'd ones be!-
Which prayer doth end my lay of thee,
Margret, Margret!


Since that I saw this gardine wasted.-SPENSER.

I MIND me in the days departed, How often, underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanish'd quite; And, wheresoe'er had fallen the spade, The greenest grasses nature led,

To sanctify her right.

I called it my wilderness, For no one enter'd there but I; The sheep look'd in, the grass t' espy, And passed ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar-tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light, And careless to be seen.

Long years ago it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all;

And lady stately overmuch, Who moved with a silken noise, Blush'd near them, dreaming of the voice That liken'd her to such!

And these, to make a diadem,

She may have often pluck'd and twined,― Half-smiling as it came to mind,

That few would look at them.

Oh! little thought that lady proud,

A child would watch her fair white rose,
When buried lay her whiter brows,
And silk was changed for shroud !-

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