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COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet ’tis early



Leave me here, and when you want me,


upon bugle horn.

'Tis the place, and round the gables, as of old, the cur

lews call, Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley


Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy

tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.

Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to


Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the West.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising thro' the mellow

shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid.

Here about the beach I wander'd, nourishing a youth

sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of


When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land

reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it

closed :

When I dipt into the future far as human eye could

see ;

Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that In the Spring a fuller crimson comes upon the Robin's

would be.


In the Spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another


In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to

thoughts of love.

Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for

one so young, And her eyes on


motions with a mute observance hung.

And I said, “ My cousin Amy, speak and speak the truth

to me,

Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee."

On her pallid cheek and forehead came a colour and a

light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern


And she turn'd

her bosom shaken with a sudden storm

of sighs — All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes

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Saying, “I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do

me wrong ; Saying, “Dost thou love me, cousin ?" weeping, “ I have

loved thee long."

Love took up the glass of Time, and turn'd it in his

glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the

chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music

out of sight.

Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses

ring, And her whisper throng'd my pulses with the fullness of

the Spring

Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately

ships, And our spirits rush'd together at the touching of the lips.

O my cousin shallow-hearted! O my Amy mine no

more !

O the dreary, dreary moorland !

O the barren, barren

shore !

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs


sung, Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish

tongue !

Is it well to wish thee happy? —having known me - - to


On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than


Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathise

with clay.

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