Far off thou art, but ever nigh; CXXX. O LIVING Will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Rise in the spiritual rock, Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. O TRUE and tried, so well and long, Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho' I since then have number'd o'er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm. Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made But where is she, the bridal flower, On me she bends her blissful eyes, And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. And thou art worthy; full of power; But now set out: the noon is near, For I that danced her on my knee, That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm, At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead; Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear. The ring is on, The "wilt thou," answer'd, and again The "wilt thou" ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet "I will" has made ye one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Begins the clash and clang that tells O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them-maidens of the place, That pelt us in the porch with flowers. O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave. They leave the porch, they pass the grave That has to-day its sunny side. To-day the grave is bright for me, For them the light of life increased, Who stay to share the morning feast, Who rest to-night beside the sea. Let all my genial spirits advance It circles round, and fancy plays, And hearts are warm'd, and faces bloom, As drinking health to bride and groom We wish them store of happy days. Nor count me all to blame if I Conjecture of a stiller guest, Perchance, perchance, among the rest, And, tho' in silence, wishing joy. But they must go, the time draws on, And those white-favor'd horses wait; They rise, but linger; it is late; Farewell, we kiss, and they are gone. A shade falls on us like the dark Discussing how their courtship grew, Again the feast, the speech, the glee, Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had fail'd, 4. I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirr'd By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trail'd, by a whisper'd fright, 5. Villany somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains all. Not he his honest fame should at least by me be maintain'd: But that old man, now lord of the broad estate and the Hall, Dropt off gorged from a scheme that had left us flaccid and drain'd. 6. Why do they prate of the blessings of Peace? we have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is it better or worse Than the heart of the citizen hissing in war on his own hearthstone? 9 7. But these are the days of advance, the works of the men of mind, When who but a fool would have faith in a tradesman's ware or his word ? Is it peace or war? Civil war, as I think, and that of a kind The viler, as underhand, not openly bearing the sword. 8. Sooner or later I too may passively take the print Of the golden age-why not? I have neither hope nor trust; May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint, Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust. 9. Peace sitting under her olive, and slurring the days gone by, 10. And the vitriol madness flushes up in the ruffian's head, 11. And Sleep must lie down arm'd, for the villanous centre-bits 12. When a Mammonite mother kills her babe for a burial fee, 13. For I trust if an enemy's fleet came yonder round by the hill, And the rushing battle-bolt sang from the three-decker out of the foam, 14. What am I raging alone as my father raged in his mood? 15. Would there be sorrow for me? there was love in the passionate shriek, 16. I am sick of the Hall and the hill, I am sick of the moor and the main. 17. There are workmen up at the Hall: they are coming back from abroad; I have heard, know not whence, of the singular beauty of Maud; I play'd with the girl when a child; she promised then to be fair. 18. Maud with her venturous climbings and tumbles and childish escapes, 19. What is she now? My dreams are bad. She may bring me a curse. No, there is fatter game on the moor; she will let me alone. Thanks, for the fiend best knows whether woman or man be the worse. I will bury myself in my books, and the Devil may pipe to his own. II. LONG have I sigh'd for a calm: God grant I may find it at last! Dead perfection, no more; nothing more, if it had not been Or an underlip, you may call it a little too ripe, too full, Or the least little delicate aquiline curve in a sensitive nose, III. COLD and clear-cut face, why come you so cruelly meek, IV. A MILLION emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime In the little grove where I sit-ah, wherefore cannot I be 2. Below me, there, is the village, and looks how quiet and small! 3. When have I bow'd to her father, the wrinkled head of the race? I met her to-day with her brother, but not to her brother I bow'd ; I bow'd to his lady-sister as she rode by on the moor; But the fire of a foolish pride flash'd over her beautiful face. 4. I keep but a man and a maid, ever ready to slander and steal; I know it, and smile a hard-set smile, like a stoic, or like A wiser epicurean, and let the world have its way: For nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow spear'd by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey. 5. We are puppets, Man in his pride, and Beauty fair in her flower; |