And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, As fit for every mood of mind,

Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there

Not less than truth design'd.

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix,

In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx

Sat smiling, babe in arm.

Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,

Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair Wound with white roses, slept St. Cecily; An angel look'd at her.

Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes

That said, We wait for thee.

Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son In some fair space of sloping greens Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,

And watch'd by weeping queens.

Or hollowing one hand against his ear,
To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian
king to hear

Of wisdom and of law.

Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, And many a tract of palm and rice, The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd A summer fann'd with spice.

Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd, From off her shoulder backward borne: From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd

The mild bull's golden horn.

Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
Above the pillar'd town.

Nor these alone: but every legend fair

Which the supreme Caucasian mind Carved out of Nature for itself, was there, Not less than life, design'd.

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,

Moved of themselves, with silver sound; And with choice paintings of wise men I hung

The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong, Beside him Shakespeare bland and

mild;

And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,

And somewhat grimly smiled.

And there the Ionian father of the rest;
A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
From cheek and throat and chin.
Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
Many an arch high up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
With interchange of gift.

Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
So wrought, they will not fail.
The people here, a beast of burden slow,
Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and
stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
The heads and crowns of kings;

Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind

All force in bonds that might endure, And here once more like some sick man declined,

And trusted any cure.

turn'd her sight

The airy hand confusion wrought, Wrote, 'Mene, mene,' and divided quite The kingdom of her thought.

Deep dread and loathing of her solitude Fell on her, from which mood was born

Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood

Laughter at her self-scorn.

'What! is not this my place of strength,' she said,

'My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation - stones were laid

Since my first memory?'

But in dark corners of her palace stood
Uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears
of blood,

And horrible nightmares,

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,

That stood against the wall.

A spot of dull stagnation, without light Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,

'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite

Making for one sure goal.

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,

Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land

Their moon-led waters white.

A star that with the choral starry dance Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw The hollow orb of moving Circumstance Roll'd round by one fix'd law.

curl'd.

'No voice,' she shriek'd in that lone

hall,

'No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:

One deep, deep silence all !'

She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,

Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God,

Lost to her place and name;

And death and life she hated equally,
And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
No comfort anywhere;

Remaining utterly confused with fears, -
And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
And all alone in crime:

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,

In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea;

And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound Of rocks thrown down, or one deep

cry

Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, 'I have found

A new land, but I die.'

She howl'd aloud, 'I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin,

And save me lest I die?'

So when four years were wholly finished, She threw her royal robes away. 'Make me a cottage in the vale,' she said, 'Where I may mourn and pray.

'Yet pull not down my palace towers,

that are

So lightly, beautifully built : Perchance I may return with others there When I have purged my guilt.'

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.

LADY Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown : You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

I know you proud to bear your name, Your pride is yet no mate for mine,

Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower

Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is,

I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates

Is not more cold to you than I.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

You put strange memories in my head. | Not thrice your branching limes have blown

Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh your sweet eyes, your low replies:

A great enchantress you may be ; But there was that across his throat

Which you had hardly cared to see.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind,

She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed I heard one bitter word

That scarce is fit for you to hear; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere,

There stands a spectre in your hall : The guilt of blood is at your door :

You changed a wholesome heart to gall. You held your course without remorse,

To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fix'dea vacant stare,

And slew him with your noble birth.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,

From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife

Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me,

"Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

I know you, Clara Vere de Vere,
You pine among your halls and towers :
The languid light of your proud eyes
Is wearied of the rolling hours.
In glowing health, with boundless wealth,
But sickening of a vague disease,
You know so ill to deal with time,
You needs must play such pranks as
these.

Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,

If time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands? Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,

Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, Pray Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go.

E