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Through the narrow paved streets, where Come away, away, children; all was still,
70 Come, children, come down! To the little gray church on the windy The hoarse wind blows colder; hill.
Lights shine in the town. From the church came a murmur of folk She will start from her slumber at their prayers,
When gusts shake the door; But we stood without in the cold blowing She will hear the winds howling, airs.
Will hear the waves roar. We climbed on the graves, on the stones We shall see, while above us worn with rains,
The waves roar and whirl, And we gazed up the aisle through the A ceiling of amber, small leaded panes.
A pavement of pearl.
And alone dwell for ever
But, children, at midnight,
125 For her eyes were sealed to the holy When clear falls the moonlight, book!
When spring-tides are low; Loud prays the priest; shut stands the When sweet airs come seaward door.
From heaths starred with broom, Come away, children, call no more! And high rocks throw mildly
130 Come away, come down, call no more! On the blanched sands a gloom;
Up the still, glistening beaches, Down, down, down!
85 Up the creeks we will hie, Down to the depths of the sea!
Over banks of bright seaweed She sits at her wheel in the humming The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills, Singing most joyfully.
At the white, sleeping town; Hark what she sings: “O joy, 0 joy, At the church on the hill-side: For the humming street, and the child And then come back down, with its toy!
90 Singing: “There dwells a loved one, 140 For the priest, and the bell, and the holy But cruel is she! well;
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.”
95 Till the spindle drops from her hand,
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a And her eyes are set in a stare;
burst! And anon there breaks a sigh,
What triumph! hark!—what pain! And anon there drops a tear,
O wanderer from a Grecian shore, 5 From a sorrow-clouded eye,
Still, after many years, in distant And a heart sorrow-laden;
lands, A long, long sigh
105 Still nourishing in thy bewildered brain For the cold strange eyes of a little Mer- That wild, unquenched, deep-sunken, oldmaiden
world painAnd the gleam of her golden hair.
Say, will it never heal?
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
fed, 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?
5 Dost thou again peruse
But when the fields are still, With hot cheeks and seared eyes
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
quest! With love and hate, triumph and agony, Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian Here, where the reaper was at work of vale?
late Listen, 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! 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; 5
day. She bathed it in smiles of glee. But her heart was tired, tired,
Screened is this nook o'er the high, halfAnd 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;
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;
25 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- Seen by rare glimpses, pensive and fumed showers
tongue-tied, Of bloom on the bent grass where I In hat of antique shape, and cloak of am laid,
55 And bower me from the August sun The same the gipsies wore. with shade;
Shepherds had met him on the Hurst And the eye travels down to Oxford's
in spring; towers.
30 At some lone alehouse in the Berk
shire moors, And near me on the grass lies Glanvil's On the warm ingle-bench,' the smockbook
frocked boors Come, let me read the oft-read tale Had found him seated at their enteragain!
ing. The story of that Oxford scholar poor, Of pregnant parts and quick inventive But, 'mid their drink and clatter, he brain,
would fly. Who, tired of knocking at prefer- And I myself seem half to know thy ment's door,
looks, One summer-morn forsook
And put the shepherds, wanderer, on His friends, and went to learn the gipsy
thy trace; lore,
And boys who in lone wheat fields scare And roamed the world with that wild
the rooks brotherhood,
I ask if thou hast passed their quiet And came, as most men deemed, to
65 little good,
Or in my boat I lie But came to Oxford and his friends no Moored to the cool bank in the summer more.
'Mid wide grass meadows which the But once, years after, in the country
sunshine fills, lanes,
And watch the warm, green-muffled Two scholars, whom at college erst he
Cumner hills, knew,
And wonder if thou haunt'st their shy Met him, and of his way of life in
70 quired; Whereat he answered, that the gipsy- For most, I know, thou lov'st retired crew,
ground! His mates, had arts to rule as they de
Thee at the ferry Oxford riders blithe, sired
Returning home on summer-nights, The workings of men's brains,
have met And they can bind them to what
Crossing the stripling Thames at Babthoughts they will.
lock-hithe, “And I,” he said, "the secret of their
Trailing in the cool stream thy fingers art,
75 When fully learned, will to the world
As the punt's? rope chops round: impart;
And leaning backward in a pensive But it needs heaven-sent moments for
dream, this skill."
And fostering in thy lap a heap of
flowers This said, he left them, and returned no
Plucked in shy fields and distant more.
Wychwood bowers, But rumors hung about the country
And thine eyes resting on the moonlit side,
80 That the lost Scholar long was seen to stray,
i fireside bench.
2 small, flat-bottomed boat.
And then they land, and thou art seen no
more. Maidens, who from the distant hamlets
seen thee roam,
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
leaves-But none hath words she can report of thee.
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
At some lone homestead in the Cumner
hills, Where at her open door the housewife
darns, Thou hast been seen, or hanging on a
gate To watch the threshers in the mossy
barns. Children, who early range these slopes and late
105 For cresses from the rills, Have known thee eying, all an April
day, The springing pastures and the feed
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
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.
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 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,
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,
And all his hourly varied anodynes. 190 Because thou hadst—what we, alas! have not.
160 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,
195 But none has hope like thine.