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Up the creeks we will hie ;
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town ;
At the church on the hill-side-

And then come back down.
Singing, “There dwells a loved one,
But cruel is she.
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea.'


9. PHILOMELA HARK ! ah, the Nightingale ! The unfriendly palace in the ThraThe tawny-throated !

cian wild ? Hark! from that moonlit cedar Dost thou again peruse what a burst!

With hot cheeks and seared eyes What triumph! hark-what pain! The too clear web, and thy dumb

Sister's shame ? O Wanderer from a Grecian shore,

Dost thou once more assay Still, after many years, in distant lands,

Thy flight, and feel come over

thee, Still nourishing in thy bewildered

Poor Fugitive, the feathery change brain That wild, unquenched, deep

Once more, and once more seem to

make resound sunken, old-world pain

With love and hate, triumph and Say, will it never heal ? And can this fragrant lawn

agony, With its cool trees, and night,

Lone Daulis, and the high Cephis

sian vale ? And the sweet tranquil Thames, And moonshine and the dew,

Listen, Eugenia

How thick the bursts
To thy racked heart and brain
Afford no balm ?

crowding through the leaves ! Dost thou to-night behold

Again-thou hearest !

Eternal Passion ! Here, through the moonlight on this English grass,

Eternal Pain !



10. FROM `EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA’ LIKE us the lightning fires Nature, with equal mind, Love to have scope and play.

Sees all her sons at play, The stream, like us, desires Sees man control the wind, An unimpeded way:

The wind sweep man away ; Like us, the Libyan wind delights Allows the proudly-riding and the to roam at large.

foundering bark.

Streams will not curb their

The just man not to entomb,
Nor lightnings go aside

To leave his virtues room,
Nor is the wind less rough that

blows a good man's barge.

Is it so small a thing
To have enjoyed the sun,
To have lived light in the spring,
To have loved, to have thought,

to have done ;
To have advanced true friends, and

beat down baffling foes ;

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OTHERS abide our question. Thou art free.
We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still,
Out-topping knowledge. For the loftiest hill
That to the stars uncrowns his majesty,
Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea,
Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling-place,
Spares but the cloudy border of his base
To the foiled searching of mortality :
And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know,
Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-honoured, self-secure,
Didst walk on Earth unguessed at. Better so!
All pains the immortal spirit must endure,
All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow,
Find their sole voice in that victorious brow.



STREW on her roses, roses,

And never a spray of yew. In quiet she reposes :

Ah! would that I did too. Her mirth the world required : She bathed it in smiles of

glee. But her heart was tired, tired,

And now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,

In mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearn-

And now peace laps her round.
Her cabined, ample Spirit,

It fluttered and failed for breath.
To-night it doth inherit
The vasty Hall of Death.



Thou waitest for the spark from heaven! and we,
Light half-believers of our casual creeds,

Who never deeply felt, nor clearly willed,
Whose insight never has borne fruit in deeds,
Whose vague resolves never have been fulfilled ;

For whom each year we see
Breeds new beginnings, disappointments new;

Who hesitate and falter life away,

And lose to-morrow the ground won to-day-
Ah! do not we, wanderer! await it too ?


Still nursing the unconquerable hope,
Still clutching the inviolable shade,

With a free onward impulse brushing through,
By night, the silvered branches of the glade-
Far on the forest skirts, where none pursue,

On some mild pastoral slope
Emerge, and resting on the moonlit pales,

Freshen thy flowers as in former years

With dew, or listen with enchanted ears,
From the dark dingles, to the nightingales !

But fly our paths, our feverish contact fly!
For strong the infection of our mental strife,

Which, though it gives no bliss, yet spoils for rest;
And we should win thee from thy own fair life,
Like us distracted, and like us unblest.

Soon, soon thy cheer would die,
Thy hopes grow timorous, and unfixed thy powers,

And thy clear aims be cross and shifting made ;

And then thy glad perennial youth would fade,
Fade, and grow old at last, and die like ours.

Then fly our greetings, fly our speech and smiles !

-As some grave Tyrian trader, from the sea,

Descried at sunrise an emerging prow
Lifting the cool-haired creepers stealthily,
The fringes of a southward-facing brow

Among the Aegean isles ;
And saw the merry Grecian coaster come,

Freighted with amber grapes, and Chian wine,

Green, bursting figs, and tunnies steeped in brine;
And knew the intruders on his ancient home,

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The young light-hearted masters of the waves ;
And snatched his rudder, and shook out more sail ;

And day and night held on indignantly
O'er the blue Midland waters with the gale,
Betwixt the Syrtes and soft Sicily,

To where the Atlantic raves
Outside the western straits; and unbent sails

There, where down cloudy cliffs, through sheets of foam,

Shy traffickers, the dark Iberians come;
And on the beach undid his corded bales.

Vain is the effort to forget. And that far purple mountain line
Some day I shall be cold, I know, Lie sweetly in the look divine
As is the eternal moon-lit snow Of the slow-sinking sun ;
Of the high Alps, to which I go:

So let me lie, and calm as they But ah, not yet! not yet !

Let beam upon my inward view Vain is the agony of grief. Those eyes of deep, soft, lucent 'Tis true, indeed, an iron knot

bueTies straitly up from mine thy Eyes too expressive to be blue, lot,

Too lovely to be grey. And were it snapt—thou lov’st me

Ah Quiet, all things feel thy balm! not!

Those blue hills too, this river's But is despair relief ?

flow, Awhile let me with thought have Were restless once, but long ago.

Tamed is their turbulent youthful And as this brimmed unwrinkled glow : Rhine

Their joy is in their calm.

M. ARNOLD. 15. MORALITY We cannot kindle when we will With aching hands and bleeding The fire that in the heart resides,

feet The spirit bloweth and is still, We dig and heap, laystone on stone; In mystery our soul abides : We bear the burden and the heat But tasks in hours of insight of the long day, and wish 'twere willed

done. Can be through hours of gloom Not till the hours of light return fulfilled.

All we have built do we discern.


done ;

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-WHAT Forms are these coming What sweet-breathing Presence
So white through the gloom ? Out-perfumes the thyme ?
What garments out-glistening

What voices enrapture
The gold-flowered broom ? The night's balmy prime ?

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'Tis Apollo comes leading ! - Whose praise do they mention, His choir, the Nine.

Of what is it told ?-The Leader is fairest,

What will be for ever,
But all are divine.

What was from of old.
They are lost in the hollows, First hymn they the Father
They stream up again.

Of all things : and then
What seeks on this mountain The rest of Immortals,
The glorified train ?-

The action of men.
They bathe on this mountain The Day in its hotness,
In the spring by their road. The strife with the palm ;
Then on to Olympus,

The Night in its silence,
Their endless abode.

The Stars in their calm.

M. ARNOLD (Empedocles on Etna).
I LOVED thee once, I'll love no more,

Thine be the grief as is the blame;
Thou art not what thou wast before,
What reason I should be the same ?

He that can love unloved again,

Hath better store of love than brain :
God send me love my debts to pay,

While unthrifts fool their love away!
Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,

If thou hadst still continued mine;
Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,
I might perchance have yet been thine.

But thou thy freedom didst recall,

That, if thou might, elsewhere inthrall :
And then how could I but disdain

A captive's captive to remain ? SIR R. AYTON.

18. FROM THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE' Do not lift him from the bracken, Leave his broadsword as we found Leave him lying where he

it, fell

Bent and broken with the blow, Better bier ye cannot fashion : That, before he died, avenged him

None beseems him half so well On the foremost of the foe. As the bare and broken heather, Leave the blood upon his bosom

And the hard and trampled sod, Wash not off that sacred stain; Whence his angry soul ascended Let it stiffen on the tartan,

To the judgement-seat of God ! Let his wounds unclosed remain, Winding-sheet we cannot give Till the day when he shall show him

them Seek no mantle for the dead, At the throne of God on high, Save the cold and spotless covering

When the murderer and the murShowered from heaven upon his

dered head.

Meet before their Judge's eye.


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