XXI.Rivulet crossing my ground,And bringing me down from the HallThis garden-rose that I found,Forgetful of Maud and me,And lost in trouble and moving roundHere at the head of a tinkling fall,And trying to pass to the sea;Rivulet, born at the Hall,My Maud has sent it by thee(If I read her sweet will right)On a blushing mission to me,Saying in odour and colour, 'Ah, beAmong the roses to-night.'
XXII.1.Come into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone;And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,And the musk of the roses blown.2.For a breeze of morning moves,And the planet of Love is on high,Beginning to faint in the light that she lovesOn a bed of daffodil sky,To faint in the light of the sun she loves.To faint in his light, and to die.3.All night have the roses heardThe flute, violin, bassoon;All night has the casement jessamine stirr'dTo the dangers dancing in tune;Till a silence fell with the waking bird,And a hush with the setting moon.4.I said to the lily, 'There is but oneWith whom she has heart to be gay.When will the dancers leave her alone?She is weary of dance and play.'Now half to the setting moon are gone,And half to the rising day;Low on the sand and loud on the stoneThe last wheel echoes away.5.I said to the rose, 'The brief night goesIn babble and revel and wine.young lord-lover, what sighs are those,For one that will never be thine?But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,'For ever and ever, mine.'6.And the soul of the rose went into my blood,As the music clash'd in the hall;And long by the garden lake I stood.For I heard your rivulet fallFrom the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,Our wood, that is dearer than all;7.From the meadow your walks have left so sweetThat whenever a March-wind sighsHe sets the jewel-print of your feetIn violets blue as your eyes,To the woody hollows in which we meetAnd the valleys of Paradise.8.The slender acacia would not shakeOne long milk-bloom on the tree;The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;But the rose was awake all night for your sake,Knowing your promise to me;The lilies and roses were all awake.They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.9.Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,Come hither, the dances are done,In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,Queen lily and rose in one;Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,To the flowers, and be their sun.10.There has fallen a splendid tearFrom the passion-flower at the gate.She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate;The red rose cries, *She is near, she is near;'And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'11.She is coming, my own, my sweet;Were it ever so airy a tread.My heart would hear her and beat,Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat,Had I lain for a century dead;Would start and tremble under her feet,And blossom in purple and red.
MAUDPART II.I.1.'The fault was mine, the fault was mine'—Why am I sitting here so stunn'd and still,Plucking the harmless wild-flower on the hill?—It is this guilty hand!—And there rises ever a passionate cryFrom underneath in the darkening land—What is it, that has been done?O dawn of Eden bright over earth and sky,The fires of Hell brake out of thy rising sun,The fires of Hell and of Hate;For she, sweet soul, had hardly spoken a word,When her brother ran in his rage to the gate,He came with the babe-faced lord;Heap'd on her terms of disgrace,And while she wept, and I strove to be cool,He fiercely gave me the lie,Till I with as fierce an anger spoke,And he struck me, madman, over the face,Struck me before the languid fool,Who was gaping and grinning by:Struck for himself an evil stroke;Wrought for his house an irredeemable woe;For front to front in an hour we stood,And a million horrible bellowing echoes brokeFrom the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood,And thunder'd up into Heaven the Christless code,That must have life for a blow.Ever and ever afresh they seem'd to grow.Was it he lay there with a fading eye?'The fault was mine,' he whisper'd, 'fly!'Then glided out of the joyous woodThe ghastly Wraith of one that I know;And there rang on a sudden a passionate cry,A cry for a brother's blood:It will ring in my heart and my ears, till I die, till I die.2.Is it gone? my pulses beat—What was it? a lying trick of the brain?Yet I thought I saw her stand,A shadow there at my feet,High over the shadowy land.It is gone; and the heavens fall in a gentle rain,When they should burst and drown with deluging stormsThe feeble vassals of wine and anger and lust,The little hearts that know not how to forgive:Arise, my God, and strike, for we hold Thee just,Strike dead the whole weak race of venomous worms,That sting each other here in the dust;We are not worthy to live.
II.1.See what a lovely shell,Small and pure as a pearl,Lying close to my foot,Frail, but a work divine,Made so fairily wellWith delicate spire and whorl,How exquisitely minute,A miracle of design!2.What is it? a learned manCould give it a clumsy name.Let him name it who can,The beauty would be the same.3.The tiny cell is forlorn,Void of the little living willThat made it stir on the shore.Did he stand at the diamond doorOf his house in a rainbow frill?Did he push, when he was uncurl'd,A golden foot or a fairy hornThro' his dim water-world?4.Slight, to be crush' d with a tapOf my finger-nail on the sand,Small, but a work divine,Frail, but of force to withstand,Year upon year, the shockOf cataract seas that snapThe three-decker's oaken spineAthwart the ledges of rock,Here on the Breton strand!5.Breton, not Briton; hereLike a shipwreck'd man on a coastOf ancient fable and fear—Plagued with a flitting to and fro,A disease, a hard mechanic ghostThat never came from on highNor ever arose from below,But only moves with the moving eye,Flying along the land and the main—Why should it look like Maud?Am I to be overawedBy what I cannot but knowIs a juggle born of the brain?6.Back from the Breton coast,Sick of a nameless fear,Back to the dark sea-lineLooking, thinking of all I have lost;An old song vexes my ear;But that of Lamech is mine.7.For years, a measureless ill,For years, for ever, to part—But she, she would love me still;And as long, God, as sheHave a grain of love for me,So long, no doubt, no doubt,Shall I nurse in my dark heart,However weary, a spark of willNot to be trampled out.8.Strange, that the mind, when fraughtWith a passion so intenseOne would think that it wellMight drown all life in the eye,—That it should, by being so overwrought,Suddenly strike on a sharper senseFor a shell, or a flower, little thingsWhich else would have been past by!And now I remember, I,When he lay dying there,I noticed one of his many rings(For he had many, poor worm) and thoughtIt is his mother's hair.9.Who knows if he be dead?Whether I need have fled?Am I guilty of blood?However this may be,Comfort her, comfort her, all things good,While I am over the sea!Let me and my passionate love go by,But speak to her all things holy and high,Whatever happen to me!Me and my harmful love, go by;But come to her waking, find her asleep,Powers of the height. Powers of the deep,And comfort her tho' I die.
III.Courage, poor heart of stone!I will not ask thee whyThou canst not understandThat thou art left for ever alone:Courage, poor stupid heart of stone.—Or if I ask thee why,Care not thou to reply:She is but dead, and the time is at handWhen thou shalt more than die.
IV.1.O that 'twere possibleAfter long grief and painTo find the arms of my true loveRound me once again!2.When I was wont to meet herIn the silent woody placesBy the home that gave me birth,We stood tranced in long embracesMixt with kisses sweeter sweeterThan any thing on earth.3.A shadow flits before me,Not thou, but like to thee;Ah Christ, that it were possibleFor one short hour to seeThe souls we loved, that they might tell usWhat and where they be.4.It leads me forth at evening,It lightly winds and stealsIn a cold white robe before me,When all my spirit reelsAt the shouts, the leagues of lights,And the roaring of the wheels.5.Half the night I waste in sighs,Half in dreams I sorrow afterThe delight of early skies;In a wakeful doze I sorrowFor the hand, the lips, the eyes,For the meeting of the morrow,The delight of happy laughter,The delight of low replies.6.'Tis a morning pure and sweet,And a dewy splendour fallsOn the little flower that clingsTo the turrets and the walls;'Tis a morning pure and sweet,And the light and shadow fleet;She is walking in the meadow,And the woodland echo rings;In a moment we shall meet;She is singing in the meadow,And the rivulet at her feetRipples on in light and shadowTo the ballad that she sings.7.Do I hear her sing as of old,My bird with the shining head,My own dove with the tender eye?But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry,There is some one dying or dead,And a sullen thunder is roll'd;For a tumult shakes the city,And I wake, my dream is fled;In the shuddering dawn, behold,Without knowledge, without pity,By the curtains of my bedThat abiding phantom cold.8.Get thee hence, nor come again,Mix not memory with doubt,Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,Pass and cease to move about,'Tis the blot upon the brainThatwillshow itself without.9.Then I rise, the eavedrops fall,And the yellow vapours chokeThe great city sounding wide;The day comes, a dull red ballWrapt in drifts of lurid smokeOn the misty river-tide.10.Thro' the hubbub of the marketI steal, a wasted frame,It crosses here, it crosses there,Thro' all that crowd confused and loud,The shadow still the same;And on my heavy eyelidsMy anguish hangs like shame.11.Alas for her that met me,That heard me softly call,Came glimmering thro' the laurelsAt the quiet evenfall,In the garden by the turretsOf the old manorial hall.12.Would the happy spirit descend,From the realms of light and song,In the chamber or the street,As she looks among the blest,Should I fear to greet my friendOr to say 'forgive the wrong,'Or to ask her, 'take me, sweet,To the regions of thy rest? '13.But the broad light glares and beats,And the shadow flits and fleetsAnd will not let me be;And I loathe the squares and streets,And the faces that one meets,Hearts with no love for me:Always I long to creepInto some still cavern deep,There to weep, and weep, and weepMy whole soul out to thee.
V.1.Dead, long dead,Long dead!And my heart is a handful of dust,And the wheels go over my head,And my bones are shaken with pain,For into a shallow grave they are thrust,Only a yard beneath the street,And the hoofs of the horses beat, beat,The hoofs of the horses beat,Beat into my scalp and my brain,With never an end to the stream of passing feet,Driving, hurrying, marrying, burying,Clamour and rumble, and ringing and clatter,And here beneath it is all as bad,For I thought the dead had peace, but it is not so;To have no peace in the grave, is that not sad?But up and down and to and fro,Ever about me the dead men go;And then to hear a dead man chatterIs enough to drive one mad.2.Wretchedest age, since Time began,They cannot even bury a man;And tho' we paid our tithes in the days that are gone,Not a bell was rung, not a prayer was read;It is that which makes us loud in the world of the dead;There is none that does his work, not one;A touch of their office might have sufficed,But the churchmen fain would kill their church,As the churches have kill'd their Christ.3.See, there is one of us sobbing,No limit to his distress;And another, a lord of all things, prayingTo his own great self, as I guess;And another, a statesman there, betrayingHis party-secret, fool, to the press;And yonder a vile physician, blabbingThe case of his patient— all for what?To tickle the maggot born in an empty head,And wheedle a world that loves him not.For it is but a world of the dead.4.Nothing but idiot gabble!For the prophecy given of oldAnd then not understood,Has come to pass as foretold;Not let any man think for the public good,But babble, merely for babble.For I never whisper'd a private affairWithin the hearing of cat or mouse,No, not to myself in the closet alone,But I heard it shouted at once from the top of the house;Everything came to be known:Who toldhimwe were there?5.Not that gray old wolf, for he came not backFrom the wilderness, full of wolves, where he used to lie;He has gather'd the bones for his o'ergrown whelp to crack;Crack them now for yourself, and howl, and die.6.Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,And curse me the British vermin, the rat;I know not whether he came in the Hanover ship,But I know that he lies and listens muteIn an ancient mansion's crannies and holes:Arsenic, arsenic, sure, would do it.Except that now we poison our babes, poor souls!It is all used up for that.7.Tell him now: she is standing here at my head;Not beautiful now, not even kind;He may take her now; for she never speaks her mind,But is ever the one thing silent here.She is not of us, as I divine;She comes from another stiller world of the dead,Stiller, not fairer than mine.8.But I know where a garden grows,Fairer than aught in the world beside,All made up of the lily and roseThat blow by night, when the season is good,To the sound of dancing music and flutes:It is only flowers, they had no fruits,And I almost fear they are not roses, but blood;For the keeper was one, so full of pride,He linkt a dead man there to a spectral bride;For he, if he had not been a Sultan of brutes,Would he have that hole in his side?9.But what will the old man say?He laid a cruel snare in a pitTo catch a friend of mine one stormy day;Yet now I could even weep to think of it;For what will the old man sayWhen he comes to the second corpse in the pit?10.Friend, to be struck by the public foe,Then to strike him and lay him low,That were a public merit, far,Whatever the Quaker holds, from sin;But the red life spilt for a private blow—I swear to you, lawful and lawless warAre scarcely even akin.11.O me, why have they not buried me deep enough?Is it kind to have made me a grave so rough,Me, that was never a quiet sleeper?Maybe still I am but half-dead;Then I cannot be wholly dumb;I will cry to the steps above my head,And somebody, surely, some kind heart will comeTo bury me, bury meDeeper, ever so little deeper.
VI.1.My life has crept so long on a broken wingThro' cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear,That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing:My mood is changed, for it fell at a time of yearWhen the face of night is fair on the dewy downs,And the shining daffodil dies, and the CharioteerAnd starry Gemini hang like glorious crownsOver Orion's grave low down in the west,That like a silent lightning under the starsShe seem'd to divide in a dream from a band of the blest,And spoke of a hope for the world in the coming wars—'And in that hope, dear soul, let trouble have rest.Knowing I tarry for thee,' and pointed to MarsAs he glow'd like a ruddy shield on the Lion's breast.2.And it was but a dream, yet it yielded a dear delightTo have look'd, tho' but in a dream, upon eyes so fair,That had been in a weary world my one thing bright;And it was but a dream, yet it lightened my despairWhen I thought that a war would arise in defence of the right,That an iron tyranny now should bend or cease,The, glory of manhood stand on his ancient height,Nor Britain's one sole God be the millionnaire:No more shall commerce be all in all, and PeacePipe on her pastoral hillock a languid note,And watch her harvest ripen, her herd increase,Nor the cannon-bullet rust on a slothful shore,And the cobweb woven across the cannon's throatShall shake its threaded tears in the wind no more.3.And as months ran on and rumour of battle grew,'It is time, it is time, O passionate heart,' said I(For I cleaved to a cause that I felt to be pure and true),'It is time, O passionate heart and morbid eye,That old hysterical mock-disease should die.'And I stood on a giant deck and mix'd my breathWith a loyal people shouting a battle cry,Till I saw the dreary phantom arise and flyFar into the North, and battle, and seas of death.4.Let it go or stay, so I wake to the higher aimsOf a land that has lost for a little her lust of gold,And love of a peace that was full of wrongs and shames,Horrible, hateful, monstrous, not to be told;And hail once more to the banner of battle unroll'd!Tho' many a light shall darken, and many shall weepFor those that are crush'd in the clash of jarring claims,Yet God's just wrath shall be wreak'd on a giant liar;And many a darkness into the light shall leap,And shine in the sudden making of splendid names,And noble thought be freer under the sun,And the heart of a people beat with one desire;For the peace, that I deem'd no peace, is over and done,And now by the side of the Black and the Baltic deep,And deathful-grinning mouths of the fortress, flamesThe blood-red blossom of war with a heart of fire.5.Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind,We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble still,And myself have awaked, as it seems, to the better mind;It is better to fight for the good, than to rail at the ill;I have felt with my native land, I am one with my kind,I embrace the purpose of God, and the doom assign'd.
'Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the EastAnd he for Italy—too late—too late:One whom the strong sons of the world despise;For lucky rhymes to him were scrip and share,And mellow metres more than cent for cent;Nor could he understand how money breeds,Thought it a dead thing; yet himself could makeThe thing that is not as the thing that is.O had he lived! In our schoolbooks we say,Of those that held their heads above the crowd,They flourish'd then or then; but life in himCould scarce be said to flourish, only touchedOn such a time as goes before the leaf,When all the wood stands in a mist of green,And nothing perfect: yet the brook he loved,For which, in branding summers of Bengal,Or ev'n the sweet half-English Neilgherry air,I panted, seems, as I re-listen to it,Prattling the primrose fancies of the boy,To me that loved him; for "O brook," he says,"O babbling brook," says Edmund in his rhyme,"Whence come you?" and the brook, why not? replies.I come from haunts of coot and hern,I make a sudden sallyAnd sparkle out among the fern,To bicker down a valley.By thirty hills I hurry down,Or slip between the ridges,By twenty thorps, a little town,And half a hundred bridges.Till last by Philip's farm I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out,Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge.It has more ivy; there the river; and thereStands Philip's farm where brook and river meet.I chatter over stony ways,In little sharps and trebles,I bubble into eddying bays,I babble on the pebbles.With many a curve my banks I fretBy many a field and fallow.And many a fairy foreland setWith willow-weed and mallow.I chatter, chatter, as I flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird;Old Philip; all about the fields you caughtHis weary daylong chirping, like the dryHigh-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass.I wind about, and in and out,With here a blossom sailing,And here and there a lusty trout,And here and there a grayling,And here and there a foamy flakeUpon me, as I travelWith many a silvery waterbreakAbove the golden gravel,And draw them all along, and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.'O darling Katie Willows, his one child!A maiden of our century, yet most meek;A daughter of our meadows, yet not coarse;Straight, but as lissome as a hazel wand;Her eyes a bashful azure, and her hairIn gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shellDivides threefold to show the fruit within.'Sweet Katie, once I did her a good turn,Her and her far-off cousin and betrothed,James Willows, of one name and heart with her.For here I came, twenty years back—the weekBefore I parted with poor Edmund; crostBy that old bridge which, half in ruins then,Still makes a hoary eyebrow for the gleamBeyond it, where the waters marry—crost,Whistling a random bar of Bonny Doon,And push'd at Philip's garden-gate. The gate,Half-parted from a weak and scolding hinge,Stuck; and he clamour'd from a casement, "run"To Katie somewhere in the walks below,"Run, Katie!" Katie never ran: she movedTo meet me, winding under woodbine bowers,A little fluttered, with her eyelids down,Fresh apple-blossom, blushing for a boon.'What was it? less of sentiment than senseHad Katie; not illiterate; nor of thoseWho dabbling in the fount of fictive tears,And nursed by mealy-mouth'd philanthropies,Divorce the Feeling from her mate the Deed.'She told me. She and James had quarrell'd. Why?What cause of quarrel? None, she said, no cause;James had no cause: but when I prest the cause,I learnt that James had flickering jealousiesWhich anger'd her. Who anger'd James? I said.But Katie snatch'd her eyes at once from mine,And sketching with her slender pointed footSome figure like a wizard's pentagramOn garden gravel, let my query passUnclaim'd, in flushing silence, till I ask'dIf James were coming. "Coming every day,"She answered, "ever longing to explain,But evermore her father came acrossWith some long-winded tale, and broke him short;And James departed vext with him and her."How could I help her? "Would I—was it wrong?"(Claspt hands and that petitionary graceOf sweet seventeen subdued me ere she spoke)"O would I take her father for one hour,For one half-hour, and let him talk to me!"And even while she spoke, I saw where JamesMade toward us, like a wader in the surf,Beyond the brook, waist-deep in meadow-sweet.'O Katie, what I suffered for your sake!For in I went, and call'd old Philip outTo show the farm: full willingly he rose:He led me thro' the short sweet-smelling lanesOf his wheat-suburb, babbling as he went.He praised his land, his horses, his machines;He praised his ploughs, his cows, his hogs, his dogs;He praised his hens, his geese, his guinea-hens;His pigeons, who in session on their roofsApproved him, bowing at their own deserts:Then from the plaintive mother's teat he tookHer blind and shuddering puppies, naming each.And naming those, his friends, for whom they were:Then crost the common into Darnley chaseTo show Sir Arthur's deer. In copse and fernTwinkled the innumerable ear and tail.Then, seated on a serpent-rooted beech,He pointed out a pasturing colt, and said:'That was the four-year-old I sold the Squire.'And there he told a long long-winded taleOf how the Squire had seen the colt at grass,And how it was the thing his daughter wish'd,And how he sent the bailiff to the farmTo learn the price, and what the price he ask'd,And how the bailiff swore that he was mad,But he stood firm; and so the matter hung;He gave them line: and five days after thatHe met the bailiff at the Golden Fleece,Who then and there had offer'd something more,But he stood firm; and so the matter hung;He knew the man; the colt would fetch its price;He gave them line: and how by chance at last(It might be May or April, he forgot,The last of April or the first of May)He found the bailiff riding by the farm,And, talking from the point, he drew him in,And there he mellow'd all his heart with ale,Until they closed a bargain, hand in hand.'Then, while I breathed in sight of haven, he,Poor fellow, could he help it? Recommenced,And ran thro' all the coltish chronicle,Wild Will, Black Bess, Tantivy, Tallyho,Reform, White Rose, Bellerophon, the Jilt,Arbaces, and Phenomenon, and the rest,Till, not to die a listener, I arose,And with me Philip, talking still; and soWe turn'd our foreheads from the falling sun,And following our own shadows thrice as longAs when they follow'd us from Philip's door,Arrived, and found the sun of sweet contentRe-risen in Katie's eyes, and all things well.I steal by lawns and grassy plots,I slide by hazel covers;I move the sweet forget-me-notsThat grow for happy lovers.I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance.Among my skimming swallows;I make the netted sunbeam danceAgainst my sandy shallows.I murmur under moon and starsIn brambly wildernesses;I linger by my shingly bars;I loiter round my cresses;And out again I curve and flowTo join the brimming river,For men may come and men may go,But I go on for ever.Yes, men may come and go; and these are gone,All gone. My dearest brother, Edmund, sleeps,Not by the well-known stream and rustic spire,But unfamiliar Arno, and the domeOf Brunelleschi; sleeps in peace: and he,Poor Philip, of all his lavish waste of wordsRemains the lean P. W. on his tomb:I scraped the lichen from it: Katie walksBy the long wash of Australasian seasFar off, and holds her head to other stars,And breathes in converse seasons. All are gone.'So Lawrence Aylmer, seated on a styleIn the long hedge, and rolling in his mindOld waifs of rhyme, and bowing o'er the brookA tonsured head in middle age forlorn,Mused, and was mute. On a sudden a low breathOf tender air made tremble in the hedgeThe fragile bindweed-bells and briony rings;And he look'd up. There stood a maiden near,Waiting to pass. In much amaze he staredOn eyes a bashful azure, and on hairIn gloss and hue the chestnut, when the shellDivides threefold to show the fruit within:Then, wondering, ask'd her 'Are you from the farm?''Yes' answer'd she. 'Pray stay a little: pardon me;What do they call you?' 'Katie.' 'That were strange.What surname? 'Willows.' 'No!' 'That is my name.''Indeed!' and here he look'd so self-perplext,That Katie laugh'd, and laughing blush'd, till heLaugh'd also, but as one before he wakes,Who feels a glimmering strangeness in his dream.Then looking at her; 'Too happy, fresh and fair,Too fresh and fair in our sad world's best bloom,To be the ghost of one who bore your nameAbout these meadows, twenty years ago.''Have you not heard?' said Katie, 'we came back.We bought the farm we tenanted before.Am I so like her? so they said on board.Sir, if you knew her in her English days,My mother, as it seems you did, the daysThat most she loves to talk of, come with me.My brother James is in the harvest-field:But she—you will be welcome—O, come in!'
1.Still on the tower stood the vane,A black yew gloom'd the stagnant air,I peer'd athwart the chancel paneAnd saw the altar cold and bare.A clog of lead was round my feet,A band of pain across my brow;'Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meetBefore you hear my marriage vow.'2.I turn'd and humm'd a bitter songThat mock'd the wholesome human heart,And then we met in wrath and wrong,We met, but only meant to part.Full cold my greeting was and dry;She faintly smiled, she hardly moved;I saw with half-unconscious eyeShe wore the colours I approved.3.She took the little ivory chest,With half a sigh she turn'd the key,Then raised her head with lips comprest,And gave my letters back to me.And gave the trinkets and the rings,My gifts, when gifts of mine could please;As looks a father on the thingsOf his dead son, I look'd on these.4.She told me all her friends had said;I raged against the public liar;She talk'd as if her love were dead,But in my words were seeds of fire.'No more of love; your sex is known:I never will be twice deceived.Henceforth I trust the man alone,The woman cannot be believed.5.'Thro' slander, meanest spawn of Hell(And women's slander is the worst),And you, whom once I loved so well,Thro' you, my life will be accurst.'I spoke with heart, and heat and force,I shook her breast with vague alarms—Like torrents from a mountain sourceWe rush'd into each other's arms.6.We parted: sweetly gleam'd the stars,And sweet the vapour-braided blue,Low breezes fann'd the belfry bars,As homeward by the church I drew.The very graves appear'd to smile,So fresh they rose in shadow'd swells;'Dark porch,' I said, 'and silent aisleThere comes a sound of marriage bells.'
1.Bury the Great DukeWith an empire's lamentation,Let us bury the Great DukeTo the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation,Mourning when their leaders fall,Warriors carry the warrior's pall,And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.2.Where shall we lay the man whom we deplore?Here, in streaming London's central roar.Let the sound of those he wrought for,And the feet of those he fought for,Echo round his bones for evermore.3.Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,As fits an universal woe,Let the long long procession go,And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,And let the mournful martial music blow;The last great Englishman is low.4.Mourn, for to us he seems the last.Remembering all his greatness in the Past.No more in soldier fashion will he greetWith lifted hand the gazer in the street.O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute:Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,Whole in himself, a common good.Mourn for the man of amplest influence,Yet clearest of ambitious crime,Our greatest yet with least pretence,Great in council and great in war,Foremost captain of his time,Rich in saving common-sense,And, as the greatest only are,In his simplicity sublime.O good gray head which all men knew,O voice from which their omens all men drew,O iron nerve to true occasion true,O fall'n at length that tower of strengthWhich stood four-square to all the winds that blew!Such was he whom we deplore.The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.The great World-victor's victor will be seen no more.5.All is over and done:Render thanks to the Giver,England, for thy son.Let the bell be toll'd.Render thanks to the Giver,And render him to the mould.Under the cross of goldThat shines over city and river,There he shall rest for everAmong the wise and the bold.Let the bell be toll'd:And a reverent people beholdThe towering car, the sable steeds:Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,Dark in its funeral fold.Let the bell be toll'd:And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd;And the sound of the sorrowing anthem roll'dThro' the dome of the golden cross;And the volleying cannon thunder his loss;He knew their voices of old.For many a time in many a climeHis captain's-ear has heard them boomBellowing victory, bellowing doom;When he with those deep voices wrought,Guarding realms and kings from shame;With those deep voices our dead captain taughtThe tyrant, and asserts his claimIn that dread sound to the great name,Which he has won so pure of blame,In praise and in dispraise the same,A man of well-attemper'd frame,O civic muse, to such a name,To such a name for ages long,To such a name,Preserve a broad approach of fame,And ever-ringing avenues of song.6.Who is he that cometh, like an honour'd guest,With banner and with music, with soldier and with priest,With a nation weeping, and breaking on my rest?Mighty seaman, this is heWas great by land as thou by sea.Thine island loves thee well, thou famous man,The greatest sailor since our world began.Now, to the roll of muffled drums,To thee the greatest soldier comes;For this is heWas great by land as thou by sea;His foes were thine; he kept us free;O give him welcome, this is he,Worthy of our gorgeous rites,And worthy to be laid by thee;For this is England's greatest son,He that gain'd a hundred fights,Nor ever lost an English gun;This is he that far awayAgainst the myriads of AssayeClash'd with his fiery few and won;And underneath another sun,Warring on a later day,Round affrighted Lisbon drewThe treble works, the vast designsOf his labour'd rampart-lines,Where he greatly stood at bay,Whence he issued forth anew,And ever great and greater grew,Beating from the wasted vinesBack to France her banded swarms,Back to France with countless blows,Till o'er the hills her eagles flewPast the Pyrenean pines,Follow'd up in valley and glenWith blare of bugle, clamour of men,Roll of cannon and dash of arms,And England pouring on her foes.Such a war had such a close.Again their ravening eagle roseIn anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing wings,And barking for the thrones of kings;Till one that sought but Duty's iron crownOn that loud sabbath shook the spoiler down;A day of onsets of despair!Dash'd on every rocky squareTheir surging charges foam'd themselves away;Last, the Prussian trumpet blew;Thro' the long-tormented airHeaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,And down we swept and charged and overthrew.So great a soldier taught us there,What long-enduring hearts could doIn that world's-earthquake, Waterloo!Mighty seaman, tender and true,And pure as he from taint of craven guile,O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,If aught of things that here befallTouch a spirit among things divine,If love of country move thee there at all,Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine!And thro' the centuries let a people's voiceIn full acclaim,A people's voice,The proof and echo of all human fame,A people's voice, when they rejoiceAt civic revel and pomp and game,Attest their great commander's claimWith honour, honour, honour, honour to him,Eternal honour to his name.7.A people's voice! we are a people yet.Tho' all men else their nobler dreams forgetConfused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers;Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly setHis Saxon in blown seas and storming showers,We have a voice, with which to pay the debtOf boundless love and reverence and regretTo those great men who fought, and kept it ours.And keep it ours, O God, from brute control;O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soulOf Europe, keep our noble England whole,And save the one true seed of freedom sownBetwixt a people and their ancient throne,That sober freedom out of which there springsOur loyal passion for our temperate kings;For, saving that, ye help to save mankindTill public wrong be crumbled into dust,And drill the raw world for the march of mind,Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.But wink no more in slothful overtrust.Remember him who led your hosts;He bad you guard the sacred coasts.Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;His voice is silent in your council-hallFor ever; and whatever tempests lourFor ever silent; even if they brokeIn thunder, silent; yet remember allHe spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power;Who let the turbid streams of rumour flowThro' either babbling world of high and low;Whose life was work, whose language rifeWith rugged maxims hewn from life;Who never spoke against a foe;Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebukeAll great self-seekers trampling on the right:Truth-teller was our England's Alfred named;Truth-lover was our English Duke;Whatever record leap to lightHe never shall be shamed.8.Lo, the leader in these glorious warsNow to glorious burial slowly borne,Followed by the brave of other lands,He, on whom from both her open handsLavish Honour showered all her stars,And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.Yea, let all good things awaitHim who cares not to be great,But as he saves or serves the state.Not once or twice in our rough island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He that walks it, only thirstingFor the right, and learns to deadenLove of self, before his journey closes,He shall find the stubborn thistle burstingInto glossy purples, which outreddenAll voluptuous garden-roses.Not once or twice in our fair island-story,The path of duty was the way to glory:He, that ever following her commands,On with toil of heart and knees and hands,Thro' the long gorge to the far light has wonHis path upward, and prevail'd,Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaledAre close upon the shining table-landsTo which our God Himself is moon and sun.Such was he: his work is done.But while the races of mankind endure,Let his great example standColossal, seen of every land,And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure;Till in all lands and thro' all human storyThe path of duty be the way to glory:And let the land whose hearths he saved from shameFor many and many an age proclaimAt civic revel and pomp and game,And when the long-illumined cities flame,Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,With honour, honour, honour, honour to him.Eternal honour to his name.9.Peace, his triumph will be sungBy some yet unmoulded tongueFar on in summers that we shall not see:Peace, it is a day of painFor one about whose patriarchal kneeLate the little children clung:O peace, it is a day of painFor one, upon whose hand and heart and brainOnce the weight and fate of Europe hung.Ours the pain, be his the gain!More than is of man's degreeMust be with us, watching hereAt this, our great solemnity.Whom we see not we revere,We revere, and we refrainFrom talk of battles loud and vain,And brawling memories all too freeFor such a wise humilityAs befits a solemn fane:We revere, and while we hearThe tides of Music's golden seaSetting toward eternity,Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,Until we doubt not that for one so trueThere must be other nobler work to doThan when he fought at Waterloo,And Victor he must ever be.For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hillAnd break the shore, and evermoreMake and break, and work their will;Tho' world on world in myriad myriads rollRound us, each with different powers,And other forms of life than ours,What know we greater than the soul?On God and Godlike men we build our trust.Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's ears:The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs and tears:The black earth yawns: the mortal disappears;Ashes to ashes, dust to dust;He is gone who seem'd so great.—Gone; but nothing can bereave himOf the force he made his ownBeing here, and we believe himSomething far advanced in State,And that he wears a truer crownThan any wreath that man can weave him.But speak no more of his renown,Lay your earthly fancies down,And in the vast cathedral leave him.God accept him, Christ receive him.1862.