As when a soul laments, which hath been blest, Desiring what is mingled with past years,

In yearnings that can never be exprest

By signs or groans or tears;

Because all words, tho' cull'd with choicest art, Failing to give the bitter of the sweet, Wither beneath the palate, and the heart Faints, faded by its heat.

Come down, come down, and hear me speak:
Tie up the ringlets on your cheek:

The sun is just about to set.
The arching limes are tall and shady,
And faint, rainy lights are seen,
Moving in the leafy beech.
Rise from the feast of sorrow, lady,

Where all day long you sit between
Joy and woe, and whisper each.

Or only look across the lawn,

Look out below your bower-eaves, Look down, and let your blue eyes dawn Upon me thro' the jasmine-leaves.

MARGARET.

1.

O SWEET pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

What lit your eyes with tearful power,
Like moonlight on a falling shower?
Who lent you, love, your mortal dower

Of pensive thought and aspect pale,
Your melancholy sweet and frail
As perfume of the cuckoo-flower?
From the westward-winding flood,
From the evening-lighted wood,

From all things outward you have won A tearful grace, as tho' you stood

Between the rainbow and the sun.
The very smile before you speak,
That dimples your transparent cheek,
Encircles all the heart, and feedeth
The senses with a still delight

Of dainty sorrow without sound,
Like the tender amber round,
Which the moon about her spreadeth,
Moving thro' a fleecy night.

2.

You love, remaining peacefully,

To hear the murmur of the strife,
But enter not the toil of life.

Your spirit is the calmed sea,

Laid by the tumult of the fight. You are the evening star, alway

Remaining betwixt dark and bright:

Lull'd echoes of laborious day

Come to you, gleams of mellow light
Float by you on the verge of night.

3.

What can it matter, Margaret,

What songs below the waning stars The lion-heart, Plantagenet,

Sang looking thro' his prison bars?
Exquisite Margaret, who can tell
The last wild thought of Chatelet,

Just ere the fallen axe did part
The burning brain from the true heart,
Even in her sight he loved so well?

4.

A fairy shield your Genius made

And gave you on your natal day. Your sorrow, only sorrow's shade,

Keeps real sorrow far away. You move not in such solitudes, You are not less divine, But more human in your moods, Than your twin-sister, Adeline. Your hair is darker, and your eyes Touch'd with a somewhat darker hue, And less aërially blue

But ever trembling thro' the dew Of dainty-woful sympathies.

5.

O sweet pale Margaret,

O rare pale Margaret,

THE BLACKBIRD.

O BLACKBIRD! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot the round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat, and dwell.

The espaliers and the standards all

Are thine: the range of lawn and park: The unnetted black-hearts ripen dark, All thine, against the garden wall.

Yet, tho' I spared thee all the Spring, Thy sole delight is, sitting still, With that gold dagger of thy bill To fret the Summer jenneting.

A golden bill! the silver tongue,
Cold February loved, is dry:
Plenty corrupts the melody

That made thee famous once, when young:

And in the sultry garden-squares,

Now thy flute-notes are changed to coarse, I hear thee not at all, or hoarse As when a hawker hawks his wares.

Take warning! he that will not sing While yon sun prospers in the blue, Shall sing for want, ere leaves are new, Caught in the frozen palms of Spring.

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR.
FULL knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing:
Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow,
And tread softly and speak low,
For the old year lies a-dying.

Old year, you must not die :
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still: he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.

He gave me a friend, and a true, true-love,
And the New-year will take 'em away.

Old year, you must not go;

So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us,
Old year, you shall not go.

He froth'd his bumpers to the brim,
A jollier year we shall not see.
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim,
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.

39

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far

Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust
I honor and his living worth:
A man more pure and bold and just
Was never born into the earth.

I have not look'd upon you nigh,
Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep.
Great Nature is more wise than I:

I will not tell you not to weep.

And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you,

"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."

Let Grief be her own mistress still.

She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done-to weep or not to weep.

I will not say "God's ordinance

Of death is blown in every wind;" For that is not a common chance

That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone

In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun,

And dwells in heaven half the night.

Vain solace! Memory standing near

Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote.

I wrote I know not what. In truth,
How should I soothe you anyway,
Who miss the brother of your youth?
Yet something I did wish to say:

For he too was a friend to me:

Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both: yet it may be

That only silence suiteth best.

Words weaker than your grief would make

Grief more. "Twere better I should cease; Although myself could almost take

The place of him that sleeps in peace.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace;
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.
Nothing comes to thee new or strange,
Sleep full of rest from head to feet;

Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease,
Within this region I subsist,
Whose spirits falter in the mist,
And languish for the purple seas?
It is the land that freemen till,

That sober-suited Freedom chose,
The land, where girt with friends or foes
A man may speak the thing he will;

A land of settled government,

A land of just and old renown,
Where freedom broadens slowly down
From precedent to precedent:

Where faction seldom gathers head,

But by degrees to fulness wrought, The strength of some diffusive thought Hath time and space to work and spread.

Should banded unions persecute

Opinion, and induce a time

When single thought is civil crime, And individual freedom mute;

Tho' Power should make from land to land
The name of Britain trebly great-
Tho' every channel of the State
Should almost choke with golden sand-

Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth,

Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, And I will see before I die The palms and temples of the South.

Or old sat Freedom on the heights,

The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet.

There in her place she did rejoice,

Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Come rolling on the wind.

Then stept she down thro' town and field
To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd
The fulness of her face-

Grave mother of majestic works,

From her isle-altar gazing down, Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown:

Her open eyes desire the truth.

The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears;

That her fair form may stand and shine,

41

Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes !

LOVE thou thy land, with love far-brought
From out the storied Past, and used
Within the Present, but transfused
Thro' future time by power of thought.

True love turn'd round on fixed poles, Love, that endures not sordid ends, For English natures, freemen, friends, Thy brothers and immortal souls.

But pamper not a hasty time,

Nor feed with crude imaginings

The herd, wild hearts and feeble wings, That every sophister can lime.

Deliver not the tasks of might

To weakness, neither hide the ray

From those, not blind, who wait for day, Tho' sitting girt with doubtful light.

Make knowledge circle with the winds: But let her herald, Reverence, fly Before her to whatever sky

Bear seed of men and growth of minds.

Watch what main-currents draw the years:
Cut Prejudice against the grain:
But gentle words are always gain:
Regard the weakness of thy peers:

Nor toil for title, place, or touch

Of pension, neither count on praise: It grows to guerdon after-days: Nor deal in watch-words over-much;

Not clinging to some ancient saw;

Not master'd by some modern term; Not swift or slow to change, but firm: And in its season bring the law;

That from Discussion's lip may fall

With Life, that, working strongly, bindsSet in all lights by many minds,

To close the interests of all.

For Nature, also, cold and warm,

And moist and dry, devising long, Thro' many agents making strong, Matures the individual form.

Meet is it changes should control

Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul.

So let the change which comes be free
To ingroove itself with that, which flies,
And work, a joint of state, that plies
Its office, moved with sympathy.

A saying, hard to shape in act;

For all the past of Time reveals A bridal dawn of thunder-peals, Wherever Thought hath wedded Fact. Ev'n now we hear with inward strife A motion toiling in the gloomThe Spirit of the years to come Yearning to mix himself with Life. A slow-develop'd strength awaits Completion in a painful school; Phantoms of other forms of rule, New Majesties of mighty States

The warders of the growing hour,

But vague in vapor, hard to mark; And round them sea and air are dark With great contrivances of Power.

Of many changes, aptly join'd,

Is bodied forth the second whole. Regard gradation, lest the soul Of Discord race the rising wind;

A wind to puff your idol-fires,

And heap their ashes on the head; To shame the boast so often made, That we are wiser than our sires.

O yet, if Nature's evil star

Drive men in manhood, as in youth, To follow flying steps of Truth Across the brazen bridge of war

If New and Old, disastrous feud,
Must ever shock, like armed foes,
And this be true, till Time shall close,
That Principles are rain'd in blood;

Not yet the wise of heart would cease

To hold his hope thro' shame and guilt, But with his hand against the hilt, Would pace the troubled land, like Peace;

Not less, tho' dogs of Faction bay,

Would serve his kind in deed and word, Certain, if knowledge bring the sword, That knowledge takes the sword away

Would love the gleams of good that broke
From either side, nor veil his eyes:
And if some dreadful need should rise
Would strike, and firmly, and one stroke:

To-morrow yet would reap to-day,

As we bear blossom of the dead; Earn well the thrifty months, nor wed Raw Haste, half-sister to Delay.

THE GOOSE.

I KNEW an old wife lean and poor, Her rags scarce held together; There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,
He utter'd rhyme and reason,
"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,
It is a stormy season."

She caught the white goose by the leg.
A goose-'twas no great matter.

The goose let fall a golden egg
With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,
And ran to tell her neighbors;
And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,
And rested from her labors.

And feeding high, and living soft, Grew plump and able-bodied; Until the grave churchwarden doff'd, The parson smirk'd and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid,
She felt her heart grow prouder :
But ah! the more the white goose laid
It clack'd and cackled louder.

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there; It stirr'd the old wife's mettle: She shifted in her elbow-chair,

And hurl'd the pan and kettle.

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note !" Then wax'd her anger stronger. "Go, take the goose, and wring her throat, I will not bear it longer."

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat; Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer,

The goose flew this way and flew that, And fill'd the house with clamor.

As head and heels upon the floor They floundered all together, There strode a stranger to the door, And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,
He utter'd words of scorning;
"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,
It is a stormy morning."

AT Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,-
The game of forfeits done-the girls all kiss'd
Beneath the sacred bush and past away-
The parson Holmes, the poet Everard Hall,
The host, and I sat round the wassail-bowl,
Then half-way ebb'd: and there we held a talk,
How all the old honor had from Christmas gone,
Or gone, or dwindled down to some odd games
In some odd nooks like this; till I, tired out
With cutting eights that day upon the pond,
Where, three times slipping from the outer edge,
I bump'd the ice into three several stars,
Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard
The parson taking wide and wider sweeps,
Now harping on the church-commissioners,
Now hawking at Geology and schism;
Until I woke, and found him settled down
Upon the general decay of faith

Right thro' the world, "at home was little left,
And none abroad: there was no anchor, none,
To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapt his hand
On Everard's shoulder, with "I hold by him.'

"And I," quoth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl."

"Why yes," I said, "we knew your gift that way

At college: but another which you had

I mean of verse (for so we held it then,)

What came of that?" "You know," said Frank,

"he burnt

His epic, his King Arthur, some twelve books".
And then to me demanding why? "O, sir,
He thought that nothing new was said, or else
Something so said 'twas nothing-that a truth
Looks freshest in the fashion of the day:
God knows: he has a mint of reasons: ask.
It pleased me well enough." "Nay, nay," said Hall,
"Why take the style of those heroic times?
For nature brings not back the Mastodon,
Nor we those times; and why should any man
Remodel models? these twelve books of mine
Were faint Homeric echoes, nothing-worth,
Mere chaff and draff, much better burnt."
Said Francis, "pick'd the eleventh from this hearth,
And have it: keep a thing, its use will come.
I hoard it as a sugar-plum for Holmes."

"But I,"

He laugh'd, and I, though sleepy, like a horse That hears the corn-bin open, prick'd my ears;