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Oh, truest love! art thou forlorn,
And unrevenged ? thy pleasant wiles

Forgotten, and thine innocent joy?

Shall hollowhearted apathy, The cruellest form of perfect scorn, With languor of most hateful smiles,

For ever write,

In the withered light
of the tearless eye,
An epitaph that all may spy ?
No! sooner she herself shall die.

Fair year, fair year, thy children cail,
But thou art deaf as death ;

All in the blooméd May.
When thy light perisheth
That from thee issueth,
Our life evanisheth:

Oh! stay.
Alas! that lips so cruel-dumb
Should have so sweet a breath!


For her the showers shall not fall,
Nor the round sun shine that shineth to all;

Her light shall into darkness change ;
For her the green grass shall not spring,
Nor the rivers flow, nor the sweet birds sing,

Till Love have his full revenge.

Fair year, with brows of royal love
Thou comest, as a king,

All in the blooméd May.
Thy golden largess fling,
And longer hear us sing;
Though thou art fleet of wing,

Yet stay.
Alas! that eyes so full of light
Should be so wandering!

Thy locks are all of sunny sheen
In rings of gold yronne, *

All in the blooméd May.
We pri'thee pass not on;
If thou dost leave the sun,
Delight is with thee gone.

Oh! stay.
Thou art the fairest of thy feres,
We pri’thee pass not on.


SAINTED Juliet ! dearest name!
If to love be life alone,

Divinest Juliet,

I love thee, and live ; and yet Love upreturned is like the fragrant flame Folding the slaughter of the sacrifice

Offered to gods upon an altar-throne; My heart is lighted at thine eyes, Changed into fire, and blown about with sighs.




I' THE glooming light
Of middle night

So cold and white,
Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave,

Beside her are laid

Her mattock and spade, For she hath half delved her own deep grave.

Alone she is there: The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose :

Her shoulders are bare ; Her tears are mixed with the beaded dews.

EVERY day hath its night:

Every night its morn:
Thorough dark and bright
Wingéd honrs are borne ;

Ah! welaway!
Seasons flower and fade;
Golden calm and storm

Mingle day by day.
There is no bright form
Doth not cast a shade-

Ah! welaway! " His crispe hair in ringis was yronne.”—CHAUCER, Knight's Tale. 238


II. When we laugh, and our mirth

Apes the happy vein, We're so kin to earth, Pleasaunce fathers pain

Ah! welaway! Madness laugheth loud: Laughter bringeth tears :

Eyes are worn away Till the end of fears Cometh in the shroud,

Ah! welaway!

Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow; The wind will cease to blow : The clouds will cease to fleet; The heart will cease to beat ;

For all things must die.


All is change, woe or weal;

Joy is Sorrow's brother ; Grief and gladness steal Symbols of each other ;

Ah! welaway! Larks in heaven's cope Sing: the culvers mourn

All the livelong day. Be not all forlorn: Let us weep in hope

Ah! welaway!

All things must die.
Spring will come never more.

Oh! vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsak.rg
The wine and merrymaking.
We are called — we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still ;

The voice of the bird

Shall no more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill.

Oh! misery! Hark! death is calling While I speak to ye, The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling, The strong limbs failing; Ice with the warm blood mixing; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell: Ye merry souls, farewell.

NOTHING WILL DIE. Wilen will the stream be aweary of flowing

Under my eye? When will the wind be aweary of blowing

Over the sky?
When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?
When will the heart be aweary of beating?

And nature die ?
Never, oh! never, nothing will die;

The stream flows,
The wind blows,
The cloud fleets,
The heart beats,

Nothing will die.

The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know

Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the sbore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Through eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.

Nothing will die;

All things will change
Through eternity.
"Tis the world's winter ;
Autumn and summer

Are gone long ago.
Earth is dry to the centre,

But spring a new comer -
A spring rich and strange,

Shall make the winds blow
Round and round,
Through and through,

Here and there,

Till the air
And the ground

Shall be filled with life anew.
The world was never made;
It will change, but it will not fade.
So let the wind range;
For even and morn

Ever will be

Through eternity.
Nothing was born;

Nothing will die;
All things will change.

On go not yet, my love,

The night is dark and vast;
The white moon is hid in her heaven above,

And the waves climb high and fast.
Oh! kiss me, kiss me, once again,

Lest thy kiss should be the last.
Oh kiss me ere we part;

Grow closer to my heart.
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the

O joy! O bliss of blisses !

My heart of hearts art thou.
Come bathe me with thy kisses,

My eyelids and my brow.
Hark how the wild rain hisses,

And the loud sea roars below.

ALL THINGS WILL DIE. CLEARLY the blue river chimes in its flowing

Under my eye ; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing

Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this Maymorning in joyance is beating

Full merrily;

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No Western odours wander

On the black and moaning sea, And when thou art dead, Leander,

My soul must follow thee! Oh go not yet, my love,

Thy voice is sweet and low; The deep salt wave breaks in above

Those marble steps below.
The turretstairs are wet

That lead into the sea.
Leander! go not yet.
The pleasant stars have set:
Oh! go not, go not yet,

Or I will follow thee.

But an insect lithe and strong,
Bowing the seeded summer flowers.
Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel,

Vaulting on thine airy feet.
Clap thy shielded sides and carol,

Carol clearly, chirrup sweet.
Thon art a mailéd warrior in youth and strength

complete ;

Armed cap-a-pie
Full fair to see ;
Unknowing fear,

Undreading loss,
A gallant cavalier,
Sans peur et sans reproche,
In sunlight and in shadow,
The Bayard of the meadow.

I would dwell with thee,

Merry grasshopper,
Thou art so glad and free,

And as light as air;
Thou hast no sorrow or tears,
Thou hast no compt of years,
No withered immortality,
But a short youth sunny and free.
Carol clearly, bound along,

Soon thy joy is over,
A summer of lond song,

And slumbers in the clover. What hast thou to do with evil In thine hour of love and revel,

In thy heat of summer pride, Pushing the thick roots aside Of the singing floweréd grasses, That brush thee with their silken tresses ? What hast thou to do with evil, Shooting, singing, ever springing

In and out the emerald glooms, Ever leaping, ever singing,

Lighting on the golden blooms ?

THE MYSTIC. ANGELS have talked with him, and showed him

thrones :
Ye knew him not; he was not one of ye,
Ye scorned him with an undiscerning scorn :
Ye could not read the marvel in his eye,
The still serene abstraction : he hath felt
The vanities of after and before;
Albeit, his spirit and his secret heart
The stern experiences of converse lives,
The linkéd woes of many a fiery change
Had purified, and chastened, and made free.
Always there stood before him, night and day,
Of wayward varycolored circumstance
The imperishable presences serene,
Colossal, without form, or sense, or sound,
Dim shadows but unwaning presences
Fourfacéd to four corners of the sky:
And yet again, three shadows, fronting one,
One forward, one respectant, three but one;
And yet again, again and evermore,
For the two first were not, but only seemed,
One shadow in the midst of a great light,
One reflex from eternity on time,
One mighty countenance of perfect calm,
Awful with most invariable eyes.
For him the silent congregated hours,
Daughters of time, divinely tall, beneath
Severe and youthful brows, with shining eyes
Smiling a godlike smile (the innocent light
Of earliest youth pierced through and through with

Keen knowledges of low-embowéd elds
Upheld, and ever hold aloft the cloud
Which droops lowhung on either gate of life,
Both birth and death: he in the centre fixt,
Saw far on each side through the grated gates
Most pale and clear and lovely distances.
He often lying broad awake, and yet
Remaining from the body, and apart
In intellect and power and will, hath heard
Time flowing in the middle of the night,
And all things creeping to a day of doom.
How could ye know him ? Ye were yet within
The narrower circle: he had wellnigh reached
The last, which with a region of white flame,
Pure without heat, into a larger air
Upburning, and an ether of black blue,
Investeth and ingirds all other lives.



ERE yet my heart was sweet Love's tomb,
Love laboured honey busily.
I was the hive, and Love the bee,
My heart the honeycomb.
One very dark and chilly night
Pride came beneath and held a light.

The cruel vapours went through all,
Sweet Love was withered in his cell;
Pride took Love's sweets, and by a spell
Did change them into gall;
And Memory, though fed by Pride,
Did wax so thin on gall,
Awhile she scarcely lived at all.
What marvel that she died ?


I. Voice of the summerwind, Joy of the summerplain, Life of the summerhours, Carol clearly, bound along. No Tithon thou as poets feign (Shame fall 'em they are deaf and blind),


The varied earth, the moving heaven,

The rapid waste of roving sea,
The fountainpregnant mountains riven

To shapes of wildest anarchy,
By secret fire and midnight storms

That wander round their windy cones,
The subtle life, the countless forms
Of living things, the wondrous tones

Of man and beast are full of strange
Astonishment and boundless change.



The day, the diamonded night,

The echo, feeble child of sound, The heavy thunder's griding might,

The herald lightning's starry bound, The vocal spring of bursting bloom,

The naked summer's glowing birth,
The troublous autumn's sallow gloom,
The hoarhead winter paving earth

With sheeny white, are full of strange
Astonishment and boundless change.

Uproof the shrines of clearest vision,
In honor of the silver-fleckéd morn;
Long hath the white wave of the virgin light
Driven back the billow of the dreamful dark.
Thou all unwittingly prolongest night,
Though long ago listening the poiséd lark,
With eyes dropt downward through the blue serene,
Over heaven's parapet the angels lean.

Each sun which from the centre flings

Grand music and redundant fire,

Could I outwear my present state of woe
The burning belts, the mighty rings,

With one brief winter, and indue i’ the spring The murm'rous planets' rolling choir,

Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow
The globetilled arch that, cleaving air,

The wan dark coil of faded suffering -
Lost in its own effulgence sleeps,

Forth in the pride of beauty issuing
The lawless comets as they glare,
And thunder through the sapphire deeps

A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers,

Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers In wayward strength, are full of strange

And watered valleys where the young birds sing;
Astonishment and boundless change.

Could I thus hope my lost delight's renewing,
I straightly would command the tears to creep

From my charged lids ; but inwardly I weep;

Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing:

That to itself hath drawn the frozen rain
You cast to ground the hope which once was mine:

From my cold eyes, and melted it again.
But did the while your harsh decree deplore,
Einbalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine,
My heart, where Hope had been and was no more.

So on an oaken sprout
A goodly acorn grew;

Thougu Night hath climbed her peak of highest But winds from heaven shook the acorn out,

And filled the cup with dew.

And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl,
All night through archways of the bridgéd pearl,
Ard portals of pure silver, walks the moon.

Walk on, my soul, nor crouch to agony,

Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy,
TIEAVEN weeps above the earth all night till morn,

And dross to gold with glorious alchemy, In darkness weeps as all ashamed to weep,

Basing thy throne above the world's annoy. Because the earth hath made her state forlorn

Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth With self-wrought evil of unnumbered years,

That roar beneath ; unshaken peace hath won thee; And doth the fruit of her dishonor reap.

So shalt thou pierce the woven glooms of truth ; And all the day heaven gathers back her tears

So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; Into her own blue eyes so clear and deep,

So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth, And showering down the glory of lightsome day,

An honourable eld shall come upon thee. Smiles on the earth's worn brow to win her if she may.


Shall the hag Evil die with child of Good,

Or propagate again her loathéd kind,
O MAIDEN, fresher than the first green leaf

Thronging the cells of the diseaséd mind, With which the fearful springtide flecks the lea, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee

Though hourly pastured on the salient blood ? That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief

Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heat Doth hold the other half in sovranty.

Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat Thou art my heart's sun in love's crystalline: Of their broad vans, and in the solitude Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine: Of middle space confound them, and blow back Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thine Their wild cries down their cavern throats, and slake My heart's day, but the shadow of my heart, With points of blastborne hail their heated eyne ! Issue of its own substance, my heart's night So their wan limbs no more might come between Thou canst not lighten even with thy light,

The moon and the moon's reflex in the night, Allpowerful in beauty as thou art.

Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.
Almeida, if my heart were substanceless,
Then might thy rays pass through to the other side,
So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide,
But lose themselves in utter emptiness.

Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep);

The pallid thunderstricken sigh for gain, They never learned to love who never knew to weep. Down an ideal stream they ever float,

And sailing on Pactolus in a boat,

Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain TO A LADY SLEEPING.

Weak eyes upon the glistening sands that robe

The understream. The wise, could he behold O THOU whose fringéd lids I gaze upon,

Cathedralled caverns of thickribbéd gold Through whose dim brain the wingéd dreams are And branching silvers of the central globe, borne,

Would marvel from so beautiful a sight



llow scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow:

But Hatred in a gold cave sits below;
Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light

WHO fears to die? Who fears to die !
Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips,

Is there any here who fears to die? And skins the colour from her trembling lips. He shal find what he fears; and none shall grieve

For the man who fears to die;

But the withering scorn of the many shall cleave LOVE.

To the man who fears to die.

CHORUS. — Shout for England !

Ho! for England !
Tuou, from the first, unborn, undying love,

George for England ! Albeit we gaze not on thy glories near,

Merry England ! Before the face of God didst breathe and move,

England for aye! Though night and pain and ruin and death reign here.

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, Thou foldest, like a golden atmosphere,

He shall eat the bread of common scorn ; The very throne of the eternal God:

It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, Passing through thee the edicts of his fear

Shall be steeped in his own salt tear : Are mellowed into music, borne abroad

Far better, far better he never were born By the loud winds, though they uprend the sea,

Than to shame merry England here.
Even from its central deeps: thine empery

CHORUS. - Shout for England ! etc.
Is over all; thou wilt not brook eclipse ;
Thou goest and returnest to His lips

There standeth our ancient enemy;
Like lightning: thou dost ever brood above

Hark! he shouteth - the ancient enemy ! The silence of all hearts, unutterable Love.

On the ridge of the hill his banners rise ;

They stream like fire in the skies;

Hold up the Lion of England on high To know thee is all wisdom, and old age

Till it dazzle and blind his eyes.
Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee

Chorus. — Shout for England ! etc.
Athwart the veils of evils which infold thee.
We beat upon our aching hearts in rage;

Come along! we alone of the earth are free: We cry for thee; we deem the world thy tomb.

The child in our cradles is bolder than he; As dwellers in lone planets look upon

For where is the heart and strength of slaves ? The mighty disk of their majestic sun, Hollowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom,

Oh! where is the strength of slaves ? Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee.

He is weak! we are strong: he a slave, we are free;

Come along! we will dig their graves.
Come, thou of many crowns, whiterobéd love,

CHORUS. - Shout for England ! etc.
Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee;
Heaven crieth after thee; earth waiteth for thee;

There standeth our ancient enemy;
Breathe on thy wingéd throne, and it shall move

Will he dare to battle with the free? In music and in light o'er land and sea.

Spur along ! spur amain! charge to the fight: III.

Charge! charge to the fight! And now - methinks I gaze upon thee now,

Hold up the Lion of England on high !

Skout for God and our right!
As on a serpent in his agonies

CHORUS. — Shout for England! etc.
Awestricken Indians; what time laid low
And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies,
When the new year warmbreathéd on the Earth,
Waiting to light him with her purple skies,
Calls to him by the fountain to uprise.

Already with the pangs of a new birth

THERE is no land like England Strain the hot spheres of his convulséd eyes,

Where'er the light of day be; And in his writhings awful hues begin

There are no hearts like English hearts, To wander down his sable-sheeny sides,

Such hearts of oak as they be. Like light on troubled waters: from within

There is no land like England Anon he rusheth forth with merry din,

Where'er the light of day be; And in him light and joy and strength abides ;

There are no men like Englishmen, And from his brows a crown of living light Looks through the thickstemmed woods by day and Chorus. -For the French the Pope may shrive 'em,

So tall and bold as they be. night.

For the devil a whit we heed 'em :
As for the French, God speed 'em

Unto their heart's desire,

And the merry devil drive 'em
BELOW the thunders of the upper deep;

Through the water and the fire. Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

FULL CHOR. — Our glory is our freedom, His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep,

We lord it o'er the sea; The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

We are the sons of freedom,
About his shadowy sides: above him swell

We are free.
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,

There is no land like England,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Where'er the light of day be; Unnumbered and enormous polypi

There are no wives like English wives, Winnow with giant fins the slumbering green.

So fair and chaste as they be. There hath he lain for ages and will lie

There is no land like England, Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,

Where'er the light of day be; Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

There are no maids like English maids, Then once by man and angels to be seen,

So beautiful as they be. In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die. CHORUS. — For the French, etc.

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